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TOWARD THE GULF 



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THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

KEW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO ■ DALLAS 
ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN & CO., Limited 

LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd. 

TORONTO 



TOWARD THE GULF 



BY 
EDGAR LEE MASTERS 

author of 

" spoon river anthology," " songs and satires," 

"the great valley" 



N^m fork 

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

1918 



Ail ri gilts reserved 



^€h 



Copyright igiy, By Edgar Lee Masters; International 
Magazine Co.. (Cosmopolitan Magazine); Marshall Field & 
Company; Harriet Monroe; The Independent. 

Copyright, 1918, 

By the MACMILLAN COMPANY 

Set up and electrotyped. Published March, 1918 



m 15(918 
^/ ©CI,A494083 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

Toward the Gulf j 

The Lake Boats q 

Cities of the Plain j , 

Excluded Middle jg 

Samuel Butler, et al - . 

Johnny Appleseed .„ 

4-^ 

The Loom g 

Dialogue at Perko's -q 

Sir Galahad ^q 

St. Deseret gq 

Heaven is but the Hour ^g 

Victor Rafolski on Art 82 

The Landscape qj 

To-morrow is My Birthday oq 

Sweet Clover jj- 

Something Beyond the Hill U7 

Front the Ages with a Smile nq 

Poor Pierrot J24 

Mirage of the Desert J2e 

Dahlias ^ ! . ^ . ! . .' ^ ' 126 

The Grand River Marshes 127 

Delilah j.^ 

The World-Saver j,q 

Recessional j -^ 

The Awakening jc2 

In the Garden at the Dawn Hour 1C3 

France j-g 

Bertrand and Gourgaud Talk Over Old Times 157 

Draw the Sword, O Republic 168 

Dear Old Dick j-j 

[v] 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Room of Mirrors 175 

The Letter 178 

Canticle of the Race , 183 

Black Eagle Returns to St. Joe 188 

My Light with Yours 196 

The Blind 197 

"I Pay My Debt for Lafayette and Rochambeau" 199 

Christmas at Indian Point 201 

Widow La Rue 205 

Dr. Scudder's Clinical Lecture 215 

Friar Yves 235 

The Eighth Crusade 243 

The Bishop's Dream of the Holy Sepulchre 257 

Neanderthal 268 

The End of the Search 276 

Botanical Gardens 285 



VI 



TO WILLIAM MARION REEDY 

It would have been fitting had I dedicated Spoon 
River Anthology to you. Considerations of an inti- 
mate nature, not to mention a literary encouragement 
which was before yours, crowded you from the page. 
Yet you know that it was you who pressed upon my 
attention in June, 1909, the Greek Anthology. It was 
from contemplation of its epitaphs that my hand un- 
consciously strayed to the sketches of "Hod Putt," 
"Serepta The Scold" ("Serepta Mason" in the book), 
"Amanda Barker" ("Amanda" in the book), "Ollie 
McGee" and "The Unknown," the first written and 
the first printed sketches of The Spoon River Anthology. 
The Mirror of May 29th, 19 14, is their record. 

I take one of the epigrams of Meleager with its sad 
revealment and touch of irony and turn it from its 
prose form to a verse form, making verses according 
to the breath pauses: 

"The holy night and thou, Lamp, we took as wit- 
ness of our vows; and before thee we swore, he that 
would love me always and I that I would never leave 
him. We swore, and thou wert witness of our double 
promise. But now he says that our vows were written 
on the running waters. And thou, O Lamp, thou 
seest him in the arms of another." 
[vii] 



TO WILLIAM MARION REEDY 

In verse this epigram is as follows: 
The holy night and thou, 
O Lamp, 

We took as witness of our vows; 
And before thee we swore, 
He that would love me always 
And I that I would never leave him. 
We swore, 

And thou wert witness of our double promise. 
But now he says that our vows were written on the 

running waters. 
And thou, O Lamp, 
Thou seest him in the arms of another. 

It will be observed that iambic feet prevail in this 
translation. They merely become noticeable and 
imperative when arranged in verses. But so it is, 
even in the briefest and starkest rendering of these 
epigrams from the Greek the humanism and dignity 
of the original transfer themselves, making something, 
if less than verse, yet more than prose; as Byron said 
of Sheridan's speeches, neither poetry nor oratory, 
but better than either. It was no difficult matter to 
pass from Chase Henry: 

"In life I was the town drunkard. 
When I died the priest denied me burial 
In holy ground, etc." 
to the use of standard measures, or rhythmical ar- 
rangements of iambics or what not, and so to make a 
[ viii ] 



TO WILLIAM MARION REEDY 

book, which for the first third required a practiced 
voice or eye to yield the semblance of verse; and for 
the last two-thirds, or nearly so, accommodated itself 
to the less sensitive conception of the average reader. 
The prosody was allowed to take care of itself under 
the emotional requirements and inspiration of the 
moment. But there is nothing new in English litera- 
ture for some hundreds of years in combinations of 
dactyls, anapests or trochees, and without rhyme. 
Nor did I discover to the world that an iambic pent- 
ameter can be lopped to a tetrameter without the verse 
ceasing to be an iambic; though it be no longer the 
blank verse which has so ennobled English poetry. 
A great deal of unrhymed poetry is yet to be written 
in the various standard rhythms and in carefully fash- 
ioned metres. 

But obviously a formal resuscitation of the Greek 
epigrams, ironical and tender, satirical and sym- 
pathetic, as casual experiments in unrelated themes 
would scarcely make the same appeal that an epic 
rendition of modern life would do, and as it turned 
out actually achieved. 

The response of the American press to Spoon River 
Anthology during the summer of 19 14 while it was 
appearing in the Mirror is my warrant for saying this. 
It was quoted and parodied during that time in the 
country and in the metropolitan newspapers. Current 
Opinion in its issue of September, 1914, reproduced 
[ix] 



TO WILLIAM MARION REEDY 

from the Mirror some of the poems. Though at this 
time the schematic effect of the Anthology could not 
be measured, Edward J. Wheeler, that devoted patron 
of the art and discriminating critic of its manifesta- 
tions, was attracted, I venture to say, by the substance 
of "Griffy, The Cooper," for that is one of the poems 
from the Anthology which he set forth in his column 
"The Voice of Living Poets" in the issue referred to. 
Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, followed in its issue of 
October, 1914, with a reprinting from the Mirror. 
In a word, the Anthology went the rounds over the 
country before it was issued in book form. And a 
reception was thus prepared for the complete work 
not often falling to the lot of a literary production. 
I must not omit an expression of my gratitude for 
the very high praise which John Cowper Powys be- 
stowed on the Anthology just before it appeared in 
book form and the publicity which was given his lec- 
ture by the New York Times. Nathan Haskell Dole 
printed an article in the Boston Transcript of June 
30, 191 5, in which he contrasted the work with the 
Greek Anthology, pointing in particular to certain 
epitaphs by Carphylides, Kallaischros and Pollianos. 
The critical testimony of Miss Harriet Monroe in 
her editorial comments and in her preface to "The 
New Poetry" has greatly strengthened the judgment 
of to-day against a reversal at the hands of a later 
criticism. 



TO WILLIAM MARION REEDY 

This response to the Anthology while it was ap- 
pearing in the Mirror and afterwards when put in the 
book was to nothing so much as to the substance. It 
was accepted as a picture of our life in America. It was 
interpreted as a transcript of the state of mind of men 
and women here and elsewhere. You called it a Comedy 
Humaine in your announcement of my identity as 
the author in the Mirror of November 20, 1914. If 
the epitaphic form gave added novelty I must confess 
that the idea was suggested to me by the Greek An- 
thology. But it was rather because of the Greek An- 
thology than from it that I evolved the less harmonious 
epitaphs with which Spoon River Anthology was com- 
menced. As to metrical epitaphs it is needless to say 
that I drew upon the legitimate materials of authentic 
English versification. Up to the Spring of 1914, I 
had never allowed a Spring to pass without reading 
Homer; and I feel that this familiarity had its influence 
both as to form and spirit; but I shall not take the 
space now to pursue this line of confessional. 

What is the substance of which I have spoken if it 
be not the Hfe around us as we view it through eyes 
whose vision lies in heredity, mode of life, understand- 
ing of ourselves and of our place and time .? You have 
lived much. As a critic and a student of the country 
no one understands America better than you do. As a 
denizen of the west, but as a surveyor of the east and 
west you have brought to the country's interpretation 

[xil 



TO WILLIAM MARION REEDY 

a knowledge of its political and literary life as well as 
a proficiency in the history of other lands and other 
times. You have seen and watched the unfolding of 
forces that sprang up after the Civil War. Those 
forces mounted in the eighties and exploded in free 
silver in 1896. They began to hit through the directed 
marksmanship of Theodore Roosevelt during his second 
term. You knew at first hand all that went with these 
forces of human hope, futile or valiant endeavor, ar- 
ticulate or inarticulate expression of the new birth. 
You saw and lived, but in greater degree, what I have 
seen and lived. And with this back-ground you in- 
spired and instructed me in my analysis. Standing 
by you confirmed or corrected my sculpturing of the 
clay taken out of the soil from which we both came. 
You did this with an eye familiar with the secrets of 
the last twenty years, familiar also with the relation 
of those years to the time which preceded and bore 
them. 

So it is, that not only because I could not dedicate 
Spoon River to you, but for the larger reasons indi- 
cated, am I impelled to do you whatever honor there 
may be in taking your name for this book. By this 
outline confession, sometime perhaps to be filled in, 
do I make known what your relation is to these inter- 
pretations of mine resulting from a spirit, life, thought, 
environment which have similarly come to us and have 
similarly affected us. 

fxiil 



TO WILLIAM MARION REEDY 

I call this book "Toward the Gulf," a title import- 
ing a continuation of the attempts of Spoon River and 
The Great Valley to mirror the age and the country 
in which we live. It does not matter which one of 
these books carries your name and makes these ac- 
knowledgments; so far, anyway, as the opportunity is 
concerned for expressing my appreciation of your 
friendship and the great esteem and affectionate in- 
terest in which I hold you. 

Edgar Lee Masters. 



[ xiii ] 



The following poems were first printed in the publications indicated: 

Toward the Gulf, The Lake Boats, The Loom, Tomorrow is my 
Birthday, Dear Old Dick, The Letter, My Light with Yours, Widow 
LaRue, Neanderthal, in Reedy's Mirror. 

Draw the Sword, Oh Republic, in the Independent. 

Canticle of the Race, in Poetry, a Magazine of Verse. 

Friar Yves, in the Cosmopolitan Magazine. 

" I pay my debt for Lafayette and Rochambeau," in Fashions of 
the Hour. 



TOWARD THE GULF 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Dedicated to Theodore Roosevelt 

From the Cordilleran Highlands, 

From the Height of Land 

Far north. 

From the Lake of the Woods, 

From Rainy Lake, 

From Itasca's springs. 

From the snow and the ice 

Of the mountains, 

Breathed on by the sun. 

And given Hfe, 

Awakened by kisses of fire, 

Moving, gliding as brightest hyaline 

Down the cliffs, 

Down the hills, 

Over the stones. 

Trickling as rills; 

Swiftly running as mountain brooks; 

Swirling through runnels of rock; 

Curving in sphered silence 

Around the long worn walls of granite gorges; 

Storming through chasms; 

And flowing for miles in quiet over the Titan basin 

To the muddled waters of the mighty river, 

[il 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Himself obeying the call of the gulf, 
And the unfathomed urge of the sea! 



Waters of mountain peaks. 

Spirits of liberty 

Leaving your pure retreats 

For work in the world. 

Soiling your crystal springs 

With the waste that is whirled to your breast as you 

run, 
Until you are foul as the crawling leviathan 
That devours you. 

And uses you to carry waste and earth 
For the making of land at the gulf. 
For the conquest of land for the feet of men. 



De Soto, Marquette and La Salle 
Planting your cross in vain, 
Gaining neither gold nor ivory, 
Nor tribute 
For France or Spain. 
Making land alone 
For liberty! 

You could proclaim in the name of the cross 
The dominion of kings over a world that was new. 
But the river has altered its course: 

[2l 



TOWARD THE GULF 

There are fertile fields 

For a thousand miles where the river flowed that you 

knew. 
And there are liberty and democracy 
For thousands of miles 

Where in the name of kings, and for the cross 
You tramped the tangles for treasure. 



The Falls of St. Anthony tumble the waters 

In laughter and tumult and roaring of voices, 

Swirling, dancing, leaping, foaming. 

Spirits of caverns, of canyons and gorges: 

Waters tinctured by star-lights, sweetened by breezes 

Blown over snows, out of the rosy northlands. 

Through forests of pine and hemlock. 

Whisperings of the Pacific grown symphonic. 

Voices of freedom, restless, unconquered, 

Mad with divinity, fearless and free: — 

Hunters and choppers, warriors, revelers, 

Laughers, dancers, fiddlers, freemen, 

Climbing the crests of the Alleghenies, 

Singing, chopping, hunting, fighting 

Erupting into Kentucky and Tennessee, 

Into Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, 

Sweeping away the waste of the Indians, 

As the river carries mud for the making of land. 

And taking the land of Illinois from kings 

[3] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

And handing its allegiance to the Republic. 

What riflemen with Daniel Boone for leader, 

And conquerors with Clark for captain 

Plunge down like melted snows 

The rocks and chasms of forbidden mountains, 

And make more land for freemen! 

Clear-eyed, hard-muscled, dauntless hunters, 

Choppers of forests and tillers of fields 

Meet at last in a field of snow-white clover 

To make wise laws for states. 

And to teach their sons of the new West 

That suffrage is the right of freemen. 

Until the lion of Tennessee, 

Who crushes king-craft near the gulf, 

Where La Salle proclaimed the crown, 

And the cross. 

Is made the ruler of the republic 

By freeman suffragans, 

And winners of the West! 



Father of Waters! Ever recurring symbol of wider 

freedom, 
Even to the ocean girdled earth. 
The out-worn rule of Florida rots your domain. 
But the lion of Tennessee asks : Would you take from 

Spain 
The land she has lost but in name.? 

[4I 



TOWARD THE GULF 

It shall be done in a month if you loose my sword. 

It was done as he said. 

And the sick and drunken power of Spain that clung, 

And sucked at the life of Chile, Peru, Argentina, 

Loosened under the blows of San Martin and Bolivar, 

Breathing the lightning thrown by Napoleon the Great 

On the thrones of Europe. 

Father of Waters! 'twas you who made us say: 

No kings this side of the earth forever! 

One-half of the earth shall be free 

By our word and the might that is back of our word! 



The falls of St. Anthony tumble the waters 

In laughter and tumult and roaring of voices! 

And the river moves in its winding channel toward the 

gulf, 
Over the breast of De Soto, 
By the swamp grave of La Salle! 
The old days sleep, the lion of Tennessee sleeps 
With Daniel Boone and the hunters. 
The rifle men, the revelers. 
The laughers and dancers and choppers 
Who climbed the crests of the AUeghenies, 
And poured themselves into Tennessee, Ohio, 
Kentucky, Illinois, the bountiful West. 
But the river never sleeps, the river flows forever. 
Making land forever, reclaiming the wastes of the sea. 

[5] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

And the race never sleeps, the race moves on forever. 
And wars must come, as the waters must sweep away 
Drift-wood, dead wood, choking the strength of the 

river — 
For Liberty never sleeps! 

***** 
The lion of Tennessee sleeps! 
And over the graves of the hunters and choppers 
The tramp of troops is heard! 
There is war again, 
O, Father of Waters! 
There is war, O, symbol of freedom ! 
They have chained your giant strength for the cause 
Of trade in men. 

But a man of the West, a denizen of your shore. 
Wholly American, 

Compact, clear-eyed, nerved like a hunter. 
Who knew no faster beat of the heart, 
Except in charity, forgiveness, peace; 
Generous, plain, democratic. 
Scarcely appraising himself at full, 
A spiritual rifleman and chopper. 
Of the breed of Daniel Boone— 
This man, your child, O, Father of Waters, 
Waked from the winter sleep of a useless day 
By the rising sun of a Freedom bright and strong. 
Slipped like the loosened snows of your mountain 
streams 

[6] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Into a channel of fate as sure as your own — 

A fate which said : till the thing be done 

Turn not back nor stop. 

Ulysses of the great Atlantis, 

Wholly American, 

Patient, silent, tireless, watchful, undismayed 

Grant at Fort Donelson, Grant at Vicksburg, 

Leading the sons of choppers and riflemen, 

Pushing on as the hunters and farmers 

Poured from the mountains into the West, 

Freed you. Father of Waters, 

To flow to the Gulf and be one 

With the earth-engirdled tides of time. 

And gave us states made ready for the hands 

Wholly American : 

Hunters, choppers, tillers, fighters 

For epochs vast and new 

In Truth, in Liberty, 

Posters from land to land and sea to sea 

Till all the earth be free! 



Ulysses of the great Atlantis, 

Dream not of disaster. 

Sleep the sleep of the brave 

In your couch afar from the Father of Waters ! 

A new Ulysses arises. 

Who turns not back, nor stops 

[7] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Till the thing is done. 

He cuts with one stroke of the sword 

The stubborn neck that keeps the Gulf 

And the Caribbean 

From the luring Pacific. 

Roosevelt the hunter, the pioneer. 

Wholly American, 

Winner of greater wests 

Till all the earth be free! 



And forever as long as the river flows toward the Gulf 
Ulysses reincarnate shall come 
To guard our places of sleep. 

Till East and West shall be one in the west of heaven 
and earth! 



[8] 



THE LAKE BOATS 

In an old print 

I see a thicket of masts on the river. 

But in the prints to be 

There will be lake boats, 

With port holes, funnels, rows of decks. 

Huddled like swans by the docks, 

Under the shadows of cliffs of brick. 

And who will know from the prints to be, 

When the Albatross and the Golden Eagle, 

The flying craft which shall carry the vision 

Of impatient lovers wounded by Spring 

To the shaded rivers of Michigan, 

That it was the Missouri, the Iowa, 

And the City of Benton Harbor 

Which lay huddled like swans by the docks ? 

You are not Lake Leman, 

Walled in by Mt. Blanc. 

One sees the whole world round you. 

And beyond you. Lake Michigan. 

And when the melodious winds of March 

Wrinkle you and drive on the shore 

The serpent rifts of sand and snow, 

And sway the giant limbs of oaks. 

Longing to bud, 

[9] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

The boats put forth for the ports that began to stir. 

With the creak of reels unwinding the nets, 

And the ring of the caulking wedge. 

But in the June days — 

The Alabama ploughs through liquid tons 

Of sapphire waves. 

She sinks from hills to valleys of water, 

And rises again, 

Like a swimming gull! 

I wish a hundred years to come, and forever 

All lovers could know the rapture 

Of the lake boats sailing the first Spring days 

To coverts of hepatica, 

With the whole world sphering round you, 

And the whole of the sky beyond you. 

I knew the captain of the City of Grand Rapids. 

He had sailed the seas as a boy. 

And he stood on deck against the railing 

Puffing a cigar, 

Showing in his eyes the cinema flash of the sun on the 

waves. 
It was June and life was easy. ... 
One could lie on deck and sleep, 
Or sit in the sun and dream. 
People were walking the decks and talking. 
Children were singing. 
And down on the purser's deck 
[lo] 



THE LAKE BOATS 

A man was dancing by himself, 

Whirling around like a dervish. 

And this captain said to me: 

"No life is better than this. 

I could live forever, 

And do nothing but run this boat 

From the dock at Chicago to the dock at Holland 

And back again." 

One time I went to Grand Haven 

On the Alabama with Charley Shippey. 

It was dawn, but white dawn only, 

Under the reign of Leucothea, 

As we volplaned, so it seemed, from the lake 

Past the Hghthouse into the river. 

And afterward laughing and talking 

Hurried to Van Dreezer's restaurant 

For breakfast. 

(Charley knew him and talked of things 

Unknown to me as he cooked the breakfast.) 

Then we fished the mile's length of the pier 

In a gale full of warmth and moisture 

Which blew the gulls about like confetti, 

And flapped like a flag the linen duster 

Of a fisherman who paced the pier — 

(Charley called him Rip Van Winkle). 

The only thing that could be better 

Than this day on the pier 

[II] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Would be its counterpart in heaven, 

As Swedenborg would say — 

Charley is fishing somewhere now, I think. 

There is a grove of oaks on a blufF by the river 

At Berrien Springs. 

There is a cottage that eyes the lake 

Between pines and silver birches 

At South Haven. 

There is the inviolable wonder of wooded shore 

Curving for miles at Saugatuck. 

And at Holland a beach like Scheveningen's. 

And at Charlevoix the sudden quaintness 

Of an old-world place by the sea. 

There are the hills around Elk Lake 

Where the blue of the sky is so still and clear 

It seems it was rubbed above them 

By the swipe of a giant thumb. 

And beyond these the little Traverse Bay 

Where the roar of the breeze goes round 

Like a roulette ball in the groove of the wheel. 

Circling the bay, 

And beyond these Mackinac and the Cheneaux 

Islands — 
And beyond these a great mystery ! — 

Neither ice floes, nor winter's palsy 
Stays the tide in the river. 

[12] 



THE LAKE BOATS 

And under the shadows of cliffs of brick 

The lake boats 

Huddled like swans 

Turn and sigh like sleepers — 

They are longing for the Spring! 



13] 



CITIES OF THE PLAIN 

Where are the cabalists, the insidious committees, 

The panders who betray the idiot cities 

For miles and miles toward the prairie sprawled. 

Ignorant, soul-less, rich, 

Smothered in fumes of pitch ? 



Rooms of mahogany in tall sky scrapers 

See the unfolding and the folding up 

Of ring-clipped papers. 

And letters which keep drugged the public cup. 

The walls hear whispers and the semi-tones 

Of voices in the corner, over telephones 

Muffled by Persian padding, gemmed with brass 

spittoons. 
Butts of cigars are on the glass topped table. 
And through the smoke, gracing the furtive Babel, 
The bishop's picture blesses the picaroons, 
Who start or stop the life of millions moving 
Unconscious of obedience, the plastic 
Yielders to satanic and dynastic 
Hands of reproaching and approving. 



I 14] 



CITIES OF THE PLAIN 

Here come knights armed, 

But with their arms concealed. 

And rubber heeled. 

Here priests and wavering want are charmed. 

And shadows fall here like the shark's 

In messages received or sent. 

Signals are flying from the battlement. 

And every president 

Of rail, gas, coal and oil, the parks. 

The receipt of custom knows, without a look. 

Their meaning as the code is in no book. 

The treasonous cracksmen of the city's wealth 

Watch for the flags of stealth ! 



Acres of coal lie fenced along the tracks. 

Tracks ribbon the streets, and beneath the streets 

Wires for voices, fire, thwart the plebiscites. 

And choke the counsels and symposiacs 

Of dreamers who have pity for the backs 

That bear and bleed. 

All things are theirs: tracks, wires, streets and coal, 

The church's creed. 

The city's soul. 

The city's sea girt loveliness, 

The merciless and meretricious press. 



* 
IS] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Far up in a watch-tower, where the news is printed, 

Gray faces and bright eyes, weary and cynical 

Discuss fresh wonders of the old cabal. 

But nothing of its work in type is hinted: 

Taxes are high ! The mentors of the town 

Must keep their taxes down 

On buildings, presses, stocks 

In gas, oil, coal and docks. 

The mahogany rooms conceal a spider man 

Who holds the taxing bodies through the church. 

And knights with arms concealed. The mentors search 

The spider man, the master publican. 

And for his friendship silence keep. 

Letting him herd the populace like sheep 

For self and for the insatiable desires 

Of coal and tracks and wires, 

Pick judges, legislators. 

And tax-gatherers. 

Or name his favorites, whom they name: 

The slick and sinistral. 

Servitors of the cabal. 

For praise which seems the equivalent of fame: 

Giving to the delicate handed crackers 

Of priceless safes, the spiritual slackers, 

The flash and thunder of front pages! 

And the gulled millions stare and fling their wages 

Where they are bidden, helpless and emasculate. 

And the unilluminate, 

[i6] 



CITIES OF THE PLAIN 

Whose brows are brass, 

Who weep on every Sabbath day 

For Jesus riding on an ass, 

Scarce know the ass is they, 

Now ridden by his ejffigy, 

The pubHcan with Jesus' painted mask. 

Along a way where fumes of odorless gas 

First spur then fell them from the task. 



Through the parade runs swift the psychic cackle 
Like thorns beneath a boiling pot that crackle. 
And the angels say to Yahveh looking down 
From the alabaster railing, on the town, 
O, cackle, cackle, cackle, crack and crack 
We wish we had our little Sodom back ! 



[17 



EXCLUDED MIDDLE 

Out of the mercury shimmer of glass 

Over these daguerreotypes 

The balloon-Hke spread of a skirt of silk emerges 

With its little figure of flowers. 

And the enameled glair of parted hair 

Lies over the oval brow, 

From under which eyes of fiery blackness 

Look through you. 

And the only repose of spirit shown 

Is in the hands 

Lying loosely one in the other. 

Lightly clasped somewhat below the breast. . . . 

And in the companion folder of this case 

Of gutta percha 

Is the shape of a man. 

His brow is oval too, but broader. 

His nose is long, but thick at the tip. 

His eyes are blue 

Wherein faith burns her signal lights. 

And flashes her convictions. 

His mouth is tense, almost a slit. 

And his face is a massive Calvinism 

Resting on a stock tie. 

[i8] 



EXCLUDED MIDDLE 

They were married, you see. 

The clasp on this gutta percha case 

Locks them together. 

They were locked together in life. 

And a hasp of brass 

Keeps their shadows face to face in the case 

Which has been handed down — 

(The pictures of noble ancestors, 

Showing what strains of gentle blood 

Flow in the third generation) — 

From Massachusetts to Illinois. . . . 

Long ago it was over for them, 

Massachusetts has done its part. 

She raised the seed 

And a wind blew it over to Illinois 

Where it has mixed, multiplied, mutated 

Until one soul comes forth: 

But a soul all striped and streaked, 

And a soul self-crossed and self-opposed, 

As it were a tree which on one branch 

Bears northern spies. 

And on another thorn apples. . . . 

Come Weissmann, Von Baer and Schleiden, 
And you Buffon and De Vries, 
Come with your secrets of sea shore asters 
Night-shade, henbanes, gloxinias, 

[19I 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Veronicas, snap-dragons, Danebrog, 

And show us how they cross and change, 

And become hybrids. 

And show us what heredity is, 

And how it works. 

For the secret of these human beings 

Locked in this gutta percha case 

Is the secret of Mephistos and red Campions. 

Let us lay out the facts as far as we can. 
Her eyes were black, 
His eyes were blue. 

She saw through shadows, walls and doors, 
She knew life and hungered for more. 
But he lived in the mists, and climbed to high places 
To feel clouds about his face, and get the Hghts 
Of supernal sun-sets. 
She was reason, and he was faith. 
She had an illumination, but of the intellect. 
And he had an illumination but of the soul. 
And she saw God as merciless law. 
And he knew God as divine love. 
And she was a man, and he in part was a woman. 
He stood in a pulpit and preached the Christ, 
And the remission of sins by blood, 
And the literal fall of man through Adam, 
And the mystical and actual salvation of man 
Through the coming of Christ. 

[20] 



EXCLUDED MIDDLE 

And she sat in a pew shading her great eyes 
To hide her scorn for it all. 
She was crucified, 

And raged to the last like the impenitent thief 
Against the fate which wasted and trampled down 
Her wisdom, sagacity, versatile skill, 
Which would have piled up gold or honors 
For a mate who knew that Hfe is growth, 
And health, and the satisfaction of wants, 
And place and reputation and mansion houses. 
And mahogany and silver, 
And beautiful living. 
She hated him, and hence she pitied him. 
She was like the gardener with great pruners 
Deciding to clip, sometimes not clipping 
Just for the dread. 
She had married him — but why I 
Some inscrutable air 

Wafted his pollen to her across a wide garden — 
Some power had crossed them. 
And here is the secret I think: 
(As we would say here is electricity) 
It is the vibration inhering in sex 
That produces devils or angels. 
And it is the sex reaction in men and women 
That brings forth devils or angels, 
And starts in them the germs of powers or passions, 
Becoming loves, ferocities, gifts and weaknesses, 
[21] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Till the stock dies out. 

So now for their hybrid children: — 

She gave birth to four daughters and one son. 

But first what have we for the composition of these 

daughters ? 
Reason opposed and becoming keener therefor. 
Faith mocked and drawing its mantel closer. 
Love thwarted and becoming acid. 
Hatred mounting too high and thinning into pity. 
Hunger for life unappeased and becoming a stream 

under-ground 
Where only blind things swim. 

God year by year removing himself to remoter thrones 
Of inexorable law. 

God coming closer even while disease 
And total blindness came between him and God 
And defeated the mercy of God. 
And a love and a trust growing deeper in him 
As she in great thirst, hanging on the cross, 
Mocked his crucifixion, 

And talked philosophy between the spasms of pain, 
Till at last she is all satirist. 
And he is all saint. 

And all the children were raised 

After the strictest fashion in New England, 

And made to join the church, 

[22] 



EXCLUDED MIDDLE 

And attend its services. 
And these were the children: 

Janet was a religious fanatic and a virago, 

She debated religion with her husband for ten years, 

Then he refused to talk, and for twenty years 

Scarcely spoke to her. 

She died a convert to Catholicism. 

They had two children: 

The boy became a forgerer 

Of notorious skill. 

The daughter married, but was barren. 

Miranda married a rich man 

And spent his money so fast that he failed. 

She lashed him with a scorpion tongue 

And made him believe at last 

With her incessant reasonings 

That he was a fool, and so had failed. 

In middle life he started over again. 

But became tangled in a law-suit. 

Because of these things he killed himself. 

Louise was a nymphomaniac. 
She was married twice. 

Both husbands fled from her insatiable embraces. 
At thirty-two she became a woman on a telephone 
list, 

[23I 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Subject to be called, 

And for two years ran through a daily orgy of sex, 

When blindness came on her, as it came on her father 

before her. 
And she became a Christian Scientist, 
And led an exemplary life. 

Deborah was a Puritan of Puritans, 
Her list of unmentionable things 
Tabooed all the secrets of creation. 
Leaving politics, religion, and human faults, 
And the mistakes most people make. 
And the natural depravity of man. 
And his freedom to redeem himself if he chooses, 
As the only subjects of conversation. 
As a twister of words and meanings. 
And a skilled welder of fallacies. 
And a swift emerger from ineluctable traps of logic, 
And a wit with an adder's tongue, 
And a laugher. 

And an unafraid facer of enemies. 
Oppositions, hatreds. 
She never knew her equal. 
She was at once very cruel, and very tender, 
Very selfish and very generous 
Very little and very magnanimous. 
Scrupulous as to the truth, and utterly disregardless 
of the truth. 

[24] 



EXCLUDED MIDDLE 

Of the keenest intuitions, yet gullible, 

Easily used at times, of erratic judgment, 

Analytic but pursuing with incredible swiftness 

The falsest trails to her own undoing — 

All in all the strangest mixture of colors and scent 

Derived from father and mother> 

But mixed by whom, and how, and why? 

Now for the son named Herman, rebel soul. 
His brow was like a loaf of bread, his eyes 
Turned from his father's blue to gray, his nose 
Was like his mother's, skin was dark like hers. 
His shapely body, hands and feet belonged 
To some patrician face, not to Marat's. 
And his was like Marat's, fanatical. 
Materialistic, fierce, as it might guide 
A reptile's crawl, but yet he crawled to peaks 
Loving the hues of mists, but not the mists 
His father loved. And being a rebel soul 
He thought the world all wrong. A nothingness 
Moving as malice marred the life of man. 
'Twas man's great work to fight this Giant Fraud, 
And all who praise and serve Him. 'Tis for man 
To free the world from error, suffer, die 
For liberty of thought. You see his mother 
Is in possession of one part of him, 
Or all of him for some time. 

[25] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

So he lives 
Nursing the dream (like father he's a dreamer) 
That genius fires him. All the while a gift 
For analytics stored behind that brow, 
That bulges like a loaf of bread, is all 
Of which he well may boast above the man • 
He hates as but a slave of faith and fear. 
He feeds luxurious doubt with Omar Khyam, 
But for long years neglects the jug of wine. 
And as for "thou" he does not wake for years, 
Is a pure maiden when he weds, the grains 
Run counter in him, end in knots at times. 
He takes from father certain tastes and traits, 
From mother certain others, one can see 
His mother's sex re-actions to his father. 
Not passed to him to make him celibate, 
But holding back in sleeping passions which 
Burst over bounds at last in lust, not love. 
Not love since that great engine in the brow 
Tears off the irised wings of love and bares 
The poor worm's body where the wings had been: 
What is it but desire? Such stuff in rhyme 
In music over what is but desire, 
And ends when that is satisfied! 

He's a crank. 
And follows all the psychic thrills which run 
To cackles o'er the world. It's Looking Backward, 

[261 



EXCLUDED MIDDLE 

Or Robert Elsmere, Spencer's Social Statics, 

It's socialism, Anarchism, Peace, 

It's non-resistance with a swelling heart, 

As who should say how truer to the faith 

Of Jesus am I, without hope or faith, 

Than churchmen. He's a prohibitionist. 

The poor's protagonist, the knight at arms 

Of fallen women, yelling at the rich 

Whose wicked greed makes all the prostitutes — 

No prostitutes without the wicked rich ! 

But as he ages, as the bitter days 

Approach with perorations: O ye vipers. 

The engine in him changes all the world. 

Reverses all the wheels of thought behind. 

For Nietzsche comes, and makes him superman. 

He dumps the truth of Jesus over — there 

It lies with his youth's textual skepticism. 

And laughter at the supernatural. 

Now what's the motivating principle 

Of such a mind ^ In youth he sought for rules 

Wherewith to trail and capture truths. He found it 

In James McCosh's Logic, it was this: 

Lex Exclusi Tertii aut Medii, 

Law of Excluded Middle speaking plain: 

A thing is true, or not true, never a third 

Hypothesis, so God is or is not. 

That's very good to start with, how to end, 

[27] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

And how to know which of the two is false — 
He hunted out the false, as mother did — 
Requires a tool. He found it in this book, 
Reductio ad absurdum; let us see 
Excluded middle use reductio. 
God is or God is not, but then what God ? 
Excluded Middle never sought a God 
To suffer demolition at his hands 
Except the God of Illinois, the God 
Grown but a little with his followers 
Since Moses lived and Peter fished. So now 
God is or God is not. Let us assume 
God is and use reductio ad absurdum. 
Taking away the rotten props, the posts 
That do not fit or hold, and let Him fall. 
For if he falls, the other postulate 
That God is not is demonstrated. See 
A universe of truth pass on the way 
Cleared by Excluded Middle through the stuff 
Of thought and visible things, a way that lets 
A greater God escape, uncaught by all 
The nippers of reductio ad absurdum. 
But to resume his argument was this: 
God is or God is not, but if God is 
Why pestilence and war, earthquake and famine? 
He either wills them, or cannot prevent them, 
But if he wills them God is evil, if 
He can't prevent them, he is limited. 
[281 



EXCLUDED MIDDLE 

But God, you say, is good, omnipotent, 
And here I prove Him evil, or too weak 
To stay the evil. Having shown your God 
Lacking in what makes God, the proposition 
Which I oppose to this, that God is not 
Stands proven. For as evil is most clear 
In sickness, pain and death, it cannot be 
There is a Power with strength to overcome them, 
Yet suffers them to be. 

And so this man 
Went through the years of life, and stripped the fields 
Of beauty and of thought with mandibles 
Insatiable as the locust's, which devours 
A season's care and labor in an hour. 
He stripped these fields and ate them, but they made 
No meat or fat for him. And so he lived 
On his own thought, as starving men may live 
On stored up fat. And so in time he starved. 
The thought in him no longer fed his life. 
And he had withered up the outer world 
Of man and nature, stripped it to the bone. 
Nothing but skull and cross-bones greeted him 
Wherever he turned— the world became a bottle 
Filled with a bitter essence he could drink 
From long accustomed doses — labeled poison 
And marked with skull and cross-bones. Could he 
laugh 

[29] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

As mother laughed ? No more ! He tried to find 
The mother's laugh and secret for the laugh 
Which kept her to the end — but did she laugh ? 
Or if she laughed, was it so hollow, forced 
As all his laughter now was. He had proved 
Too much for laughter. Nothing but himself 
Remained to keep himself, he lived alone 
Upon his stored up fat, now daily growing 
To dangerous thinness. 

So with love of woman. 
He had found "thou" the jug of wine as well, 
"Thou" "thou" had come and gone too many times. 
For what is sex but touch of flesh, the hand 
Is flesh and hands may touch, if so, the loins — 
Reductio ad absurdum, O you fools. 
Who see a wrong in touch of loins, no wrong 
In clasp of hands. And so again, again 
With his own tools of thought he bruised his hands 
Until they grew too callous to perceive 
When they were touched. 

So by analysis 
He turned on everything he once believed. 
Let's make an end! 

Men thought Excluded Middle 
Was born for great things. Why that bulging brow 
And analytic keen if not for greatness ? 

[30] 



EXCUDLED MIDDLE 

In those old days they thought so when he fought 

For lofty things, a youthful radical 

Come here to change the world! But now at last 

He lectures in back halls to youths who are 

What he was in his youth, to acid souls 

Who must have bitterness, can take enough 

To kill a healthy soul, as fiends for dope 

Must have enough to kill a body clean. 

And so upon a night Excluded Middle 

Is lecturing to prove that life is evil. 

Not worth the living — ^when his auditors 

Behold him pale and sway and take his seat. 

And later quit the hall, the lecture left 

Half finished. 

This had happened in a twinkling: 

He had made life a punching bag, with fists. 

Excluded Middle and Reductio, 

Had whacked it back and forth. But just as often 

As he had struck it with an argument 

That it is not worth living, snap, the bag 

Would fly back for another punch. For life 

Just like a punching bag will stand your whacks 

Of hatred and denial, let you punch 

Almost at will. But sometime, like the bag. 

The strap gives way, the bag flies up and falls 

And lies upon the floor, you've knocked it out. 

And this is what Excluded Middle does 

[31I 



TOWARD THE GULF 

This night, the strap breaks with his blows. He proves 

His strength, his case and for the first he sees 

Life is not worth the hving. Life gives up, 

Resists no more, flys back no more to him. 

But hits the ceiHng, snap the strap gives way! 

The bag falls to the floor, and lies there still — 

Who now shall pick it up, re-fasten it? 

And so his color fades, it well may be 

The crisis of a long neurosis, well 

What caused it? But his eyes are wondrous clear 

Perceiving life knocked out. His heart is sick. 

He takes his seat, admiring friends swarm round him, 

Conduct him to a carriage, he goes home 

And sitting by the fire (0 what is fire? 

The miracle of fire dawns on his thought. 

Fire has been near him all these years unseen, 

How wonderful is fire!) which warms and soothes 

Neuritic pains, he takes the rubber case 

Which locks the images of father, mother. 

And as he stares upon the oval brow. 

The eyes of blue which flash the light of faith. 

Preserved like dendrites in this silver shimmer. 

Some spectral speculations fill his brain. 

Float like a storm above the sorry wreck 

Of all his logic tools, machines; for now 

Since pains in back and shoulder like to father's 

Fall to him at the age that father had them. 

Father has entered him, has settled down 

[32] 



EXCLUDED MIDDLE 

To live with him with those neuritic pangs. 
Thus are his speculations. Over all 
How comes it that a sudden feel of life, 
Its wonder, terror, beauty is like father's? 
As if the soul of father entered in him 
And made the field of consciousness his own, 
Emotions, powers of thought his instruments. 
That is a horrible atavism, when 
You find yourself reverting to a soul 
You have not loved, despite yourself becoming 
That other soul, and with an out-worn self 
Crying for burial on your hands, a life 
Not yours till now that waits your new found powers- 
Live now or die indeed! 



[33] 



SAMUEL BUTLER ET AL. 

Let me consider your emergence 

From the milieu of our youth: 

We have played all the afternoon, grown hungry. 

No meal has been prepared, where have you been ? 

Toward sun's decline we see you down the path, 

And run to meet you, and perhaps you smile, 

Or take us in your arms. Perhaps again 

You look at us, say nothing, are absorbed, 

Or chide us for our dirty frocks or faces. 

Of running wild without our meals 

You do not speak. 

Then in the house, seized with a sudden joy. 

After removing gloves and hat, you run. 

As with a winged descending flight, and cry, 

Half song, half exclamation, 

Seize one of us, 

Crush one of us with mad embraces, bite 

Ears of us in a rapture of affection. 

"You shall have supper," then you say. 

The stove lids rattle, wood's poked in the fire. 

The kettle steams, pots boil, by seven o'clock 

We sit down to a meal of hodge-podge stuff, 

[34] 



SAMUEL BUTLER ET AL. 

I understand now how your youth and spirits 
Fought back the drabness of the village, 
And wonder not you spent the afternoons 
With such bright company as Eugenia Turner — 
And I forgive you hunger, loneliness. 

But when we asked you where you'd been, 

Complained of loneliness and hunger, spoke of children 

Who lived in order, sat down thrice a day 

To cream and porridge, bread and meat. 

We think to corner you — alas for us ! 

Your anger flashes swords! Reasons pour out 

Like anvil sparks to justify your way: 

"Your father's always gone — you selfish children, 

You'd have me in the house from morn till night." 

You put us in the wrong — our cause is routed. 

We turn to bed unsatisfied in mind. 

You've overwhelmed us, not convinced us. 

Our sense of wrong defeat breeds resolution 

To whip you out when minds grow strong. 

Up in the moon-lit room without a light, 

(The lamps have not been filled,) 

We crawl in unmade beds. 

We leave you pouring over paper backs. 

We peek above your shoulder. 

It is "The Lady in White" you read. 

Next morning you are dead for sleep, 

[35I 



TOWARD THE GULF 

You've sat up more than half the night. 
We have been playing hours when you arise. 
It's nine o'clock when breakfast's served at last, 
When school days come I'm always late to school. 

Shy, hungry children scuffle at your door. 

Eye through the crack, maybe, at nine o'clock, 

Find father has returned during the night. 

You are all happiness, his idlest word 

Provokes your laughter. 

He shows us rolls of precious money earned; 

He's given you a silk dress, money too 

For suits and shoes for us — all is forgiven. 

You run about the house. 

As with a winged descending flight and cry 

Half song, half exclamation. 

We're sick so much. But then no human soul 
Could be more sweet when one of us is sick. 
We run to colds, have measles, mumps, our throats 
Are weak, the doctor says. If rooms were warmer, 
And clothes were warmer, food more regular. 
And sleep more regular, it might be different. 
Then there's the well. You fear the water. 
He laughs at you, we children drink the water. 
Though it tastes bitter, shows white particles: 
It may be shreds of rats drowned in the well. 
The village has no drainage, blights and mildews 

[36] 



SAMUEL BUTLER ET AL. 

Get in our throats. I spend a certain spring 

Bent over, yellow, coughing blood at times. 

Sick to somnambulistic sense of things. 

You blame him for the well, that's just one thing. 

You seem to differ about everything — 

You seem to hate each other — when you quarrel 

We cry, take sides, sometimes are whipped 

For taking sides. 

Our broken school days lose us clues. 

Some lesson has been missed, the final meaning 

And wholeness of the grammar are disturbed — 

That shall not be made up in all our life. 

The children, save a few, are not our friends, 

Some taunt us with your quarrels. 

We learn great secrets scrawled in signs or words 

Of foulness on the fences. So it is 

An American village, in a great Republic, 

Where men are free, where therefore goodness, wisdom 

Must have their way ! 

We reach the budding age. 

Sweet aches are in our breasts: 

Is it spring, or God, or music, is it you? 

I am all tenderness for you at times. 

Then hate myself for feeling so, my flesh 

Crawls by an instinct from you. You repel me 

Sometimes with an insidious smile, a look. 

[37] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

What are these phantasies I have? They breed 
Strange hatred for you, even while I feel 
My soul's home is with you, must be with you 
To find my soul's rest. . . . 

I must go back a little. At ten years 

I play with Paula. 

I plait her crowns of flowers, carry her books, 

Defend her, watch her, choose her in the games. 

You overhear us under the oak tree 

Calling her doll our child. You catch my coat 

And draw me in the house. 

When I resist you whip me cruelly. 

To think of whipping me at such time. 

And mix the shame of smarting legs and back 

With love of Paula! 

So I lose Paula. 

I am a man at last. 

I now can master what you are and see 

What you have been. You cannot rout me now. 

Or put me in the wrong. Out of old wounds, 

Remembrance of your baffling days, 

I take great strength and show you 

Where you have been untruthful, where a hater. 

Where narrow, bitter, growing in on self, 

Where you neglected us. 

Where you heaped fast destruction on our father- 

[38] 



SAMUEL BUTLER ET AL. 

For now I know that you devoured his soul, 
And that no soul that you could not devour 
Could have its peace with you. 
You've dwindled to a quiet word like this: 
"You are unfilial." Which means at last 
That I have conquered you, at least it means 
That you could not devour me. 

Yet am I blind to you? Let me confess 

You are the world's whole cycle in yourself: 

You can be summer rich and luminous; 

You can be autumn, mellow, mystical; 

You can be winter with a cheerful hearth; 

You can be March, bitter, bright and hard, 

Pouring sharp sleet, and showering cutting hail; 

You can be April of the flying cloud. 

And intermittent sun and musical air. 

I am not you while being you, 

While finding in myself so much of you. 

It tears my other self, which is not you. 

My tragedy is this: I do not love you. 

Your tragedy is this : my other self 

Which triumphs over you, you hate at heart. 

Your solace is you have no faith in me. 

All quiet now, no March days with you now, 
Only the soft coals slumbering in your face, 

[39] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

I saw you totter over a ravine ! 

Your eyes averted, watching steps, 

A light of resignation on your brow. 

Your thin-spun hair all gray, blown by the wind 

Which swayed the blossomed cherry trees, 

Bent last year's reeds, 

Shook early dandelions, and tossed a bird 

That left a branch with song — 

I saw you totter over a ravine! 

What were you at the start? 

What soul dissatisfaction, sense of wrong, 

Of being thwarted, stung you ? 

What was your shrinking of the flesh; 

What fear of being soiled, misunderstood, 

What wrath for loneliness which constant hope 

Saw turned to fine companionship; 

What in your marriage, what in seeing me, 

The fruit of marriage, recreated traits 

Of face or spirit which you loathed; 

What in your father and your mother. 

And in the chromosomes from which you grew, 

By what mitosis could result at last 

In you, in issues of such moment, 

In our dissevered beings. 

In what the world will take from me 

In children, in events? 

[40] 



SAUMEL BUTLER ET AL. 

All quiet now, no March days with you now. 
Only the soft coals slumbering in your face, 
I saw you totter over a ravine. 
And back of you the Furies ! 



I41] 



JOHNNY APPLESEED 

When the air of October is sweet and cold as the wine 
of apples 

Hanging ungathered in frosted orchards along the 
Grand River, 

I take the road that winds by the resting fields and 
wander 

From Eastmanville to Nunica down to the Villa Cross- 
ing. 

I look for old men to talk with, men as old as the or- 
chards, 

Men to tell me of ancient days, of those who built and 
planted. 

Lichen gray, branch broken, bent and sighing. 

Hobbling for warmth in the sun and for places to sit 
and smoke. 

For there is a legend here, a tale of the croaking old ones 

That Johnny Appleseed came here, planted some or- 
chards around here. 

When nothing was here but the pine trees, oaks and 
the beeches. 

And nothing was here but the marshes, lake and the 
river. 

[42] 



JOHNNY APPLESEED 

Peter Van Zylen is ninety and this he tells me: 

My father talked with Johnny Appleseed there on the 

hill-side, 
There by the road on the way to Fruitport, saw him 
Clearing pines and oaks for a place for an apple orchard. 

Peter Van Zylen says: He got that name from the 

people 
For carrying apple-seed with him and planting orchards 
All the way from Ohio, through Indiana across here. 
Planting orchards, they say, as far as Illinois. 

Johnny Appleseed said, so my father told me: 

I go to a place forgotten, the orchards will thrive and 
be here 

For children to come, who will gather and eat here- 
after. 

And few will know who planted, and none will under- 
stand. 

I laugh, said Johnny Appleseed : Some fellow buys this 

timber 
Five years, perhaps from to-day, begins to clear for 

barley. 
And here in the midst of the timber is hidden an apple 

orchard. 
How did it come here? Lord! Who was it here before 

me? 

[43] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Yes, I was here before him, to make these places of 

worship. 
Labor and laughter and gain in the late October. 
Why did I do it, eh ? Some folks say I am crazy. 
Where do my labors end ? Far west, God only knows ! 

Said Johnny Appleseed there on the hill-side: Listen! 

Beware the deceit of nurseries, sellers of seeds of the 
apple. 

Think! You labor for years in trees not worth the rais- 
ing. 

You planted what you knew not, bitter or sour for 
sweet. 

No luck more bitter than poor seed, but one as 

bitter: 
The planting of perfect seed in soil that feeds and 

fails. 
Nourishes for a little, and then goes spent forever. 
Look to your seed, he said, and remember the soil. 

And after that is the fight: the foe curled up at the 

root. 
The scale that crumples and deadens, the moth in the 

blossoms 
Becoming a life that coils at the core of a thing of 

beauty: 
You bite your apple, a worm is crushed on your tongue! 

[44] 



JOHNNY APPLESEED 

And it's every bit the truth, said Peter Van Zylen. 
So many things love an apple as well as ourselves. 
A man must fight for the thing he loves, to possess it: 
Apples, freedom, heaven, said Peter Van Zylen. 



[45] 



THE LOOM 

My brother, the god, and I grow sick 

Of heaven's heights. 

We plunge to the valley to hear the tick 

Of days and nights. 

We walk and loiter around the Loom 

To see, if we may. 

The Hand that smashes the beam in the gloon 

To the shuttle's play; 

Who grows the wool, who cards and spins, 

Who clips and ties; 

For the storied weave of the Gobelins, 

Who draughts and dyes. 

But whether you stand or walk around 

You shall but hear 

A murmuring life, as it were the sound 

Of bees or a sphere. 

No Hand is seen, but still you may feel 

A pulse in the thread. 

And thought in every lever and wheel 

Where the shuttle sped. 

Dripping the colors, as crushed and urged — 

Is it cochineal? — 

Shot from the shuttle, woven and merged 

[46] 



THE LOOM 

A tale to reveal. 

Woven and wound In a bolt and dried 

As it were a plan. 

Closer I looked at the thread and cried 

The thread is man! 

Then my brother curious, strong and bold, 

Tugged hard at the bolt 

Of the woven life; for a length unrolled 

The cryptic cloth. 

He gasped for labor, blind for the moult 

Of the up-winged moth. 

While I saw a growth and a mad crusade 

That the Loom had made; 

Land and water and living things. 

Till I grew afraid 

For mouths and claws and devil wings, 

And fangs and stings, 

And tiger faces with eyes of hell 

In caves and holes. 

And eyes In terror and terrible 

For awakened souls. 

I stood above my brother, the god 

Unwinding the roll. 

And a tale came forth of the woven slain 

Sequent and whole, 

Of flint and bronze, trowel and hod, 

[47I 



TOWARD THE GULF 

The wheel and the plane, 

The carven stone and the graven clod 

Painted and baked. 

And cromlechs, proving the human heart 

Has always ached; 

Till it puffed with blood and gave to art 

The dream of the dome; 

Till it broke and the blood shot up like fire 

In tower and spire. 

And here was the Persian, Jew and Goth 

In the weave of the cloth; 

Greek and Roman, Ghibelline, Guelph, 

Angel and elf. 

They were dyed in blood, tangled in dreams 

Like a comet's streams. 

And here were surfaces red and rough 

In the finished stuff. 

Where the knotted thread was proud and rebelled 

As the shuttle proved 

The fated warp and woof that held 

When the shuttle moved; 

And pressed the dye which ran to loss 

In a deep maroon 

Around an altar, oracle, cross 

Or a crescent moon. 

Around a face, a thought, a star 

In a riot of war! 

[48] 



THE LOOM 

Then I said to my brother, the god, let be. 

Though the thread be crushed. 

And the living things in the tapestry 

Be woven and hushed; 

The Loom has a tale, you can see, to tell, 

And a tale has told. 

I love this Gobelin epical 

Of scarlet and gold. 

If the heart of a god may look in pride 

At the wondrous weave 

It is something better to Hands which guidf 

I see and believe. 



[49] ' 



. DIALOGUE AT PERKO'S 

Look here, Jack: 

You don't act natural. You have lost your laugh. 

You haven't told me any stories. You 

Just lie there half asleep. What's on your mind? 

Jack 
What time is it ? Where is my watch } 

Florence 

Your watch 
Under your pillow! You don't think I'd take it. 
Why, Jack, what talk for you. 



Let's pack no ice. 



What is the time? 



Jack 

Well, never mind, 

Florence 

What's that? 

Jack 

No quarreling — 

[50I 



DIALOGUE AT PERKO'S 



Florence 



Look over towards my dresser- 
My clock says half-past eleven. 

Jack 

Listen to that- 
That hurdy-gurdy's playing Holy Night, 
And on this street. 

Florence 
And why not on this street? 

Jack 

You may be right. It may as well be played 
Where you live as in front of where I work. 
Some twenty stories up. I think you're right. 

Florence 

Say, Jack, what is the matter? Come! be gay. 
Tell me some stories. Buy another bottle. 
Just think you make a lot of money, Jack. 
You're young and prominent. They all know you. 
I hear your name all over town. I see 
Your picture in the papers. What's the matter? 

Jack 
I've lost my job for one thing. 

[SI] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Florence 

You don't mean It! 

Jack 

They used me and then fired me, same as you. 
If you don't make the money, out you go. 

Florence 
Yes, out I go. But, there are other places. 

Jack 
On further down the street. 

Florence 

Not yet a while. 

Jack 

Not yet for me, but still the question is 
Whether to fight it out for up or down, 
Or run from everything, be free. 

Florence 
You can't do that. 

Jack 

Why not ? 
[52] 



DIALOGUE AT PERKO'S 

Florence 

No more than I. 
Oh well perhaps, if a nice man came by 
To marry me then I could get away. 
It happens all the time. Last week in fact 
Christ Perko married Rachel who lived here. 
He's rich as cream. 

Jack 

What corresponds to marriage 
To take me from slavery? 



Florence 



Money is everything. 



Jack 

Yes, everything and nothing. 
Christ Perko's rich, Christ Perko runs this house. 
The madam merely acts as figure-head; 
Keeps check upon the girls and on the wine. 
She's just the editor, and yet I'd rather 
Be editor than owner. I was editor. 
My Perko was the owner of a pulp mill, 
Incorporate through some multi-millionaires. 
And all our lesser writers were the girls. 
Like you and Rachel. 

[S3] 



TOWARD THE GULF 



Florence 



But you know before 
He married Rachel, he was lover to 
The madam here. 

Jack 

The stories tally, for 
The pulp mill took my first assistant editor 
To wife by making him the editor. 
And I was fired just as the madam here 
Lost out with Perko. 

Florence 

This is growing funny. . . 
Ahem ! I'll ask you something — 
As if I were a youth and you a girl — 
How were you ruined first ? 

Jack 

The same as you: 
You ran away from school. It was romance. 
You thought you loved this flashy travelling man. 
And I — I loved adventure, loved the truth. 
I wanted to destroy the force called "They." 
There is no "They" — we're all together here, 
And everyone must live, Christ Perko too. 
The pulp-mill, the policeman, magistrate, 

[54] 



DIALOGUE AT PERKO'S 

The alderman, the precinct captain too, 

And you the girls, myself the editor. 

And ail the lesser writers. Here we are 

Thrown in one integrated lot. You see 

There is no "They," except the terms, the thought 

Which ramifies and vivifies the whole. . . . 

So I came to the city, went to work 

Reporting for a paper. Having said 

There is no "They" — I've freed myself to say 

What bitter things I choose. For how they drive you. 

And terrify you, mock you, ridicule you. 

And call you cub and greenhorn, send you round 

To courts and dirty places, make you risk 

Your body and your life, and make you watch 

The rules about your writing; what's tabooed. 

What names are to be cursed or to be praised, 

What interests, policies to be subserved. 

And what to undermine. So I went through. 

Until I had a desk, wrote editorials — 

Now said I to myself, I'm free at last. 

But no, my manager, your madam, mark you. 

Kept eye on me, for he was under watch 

Of some Christ Perko. So my manager 

Blue penciled me when I touched certain subjects. 

But, as he was a just man, loved me too 

He gave me things to write where he could let 

My conscience have full scope, as you might live 

In this house where you saw the man you loved, 

[55] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

And no one else, though Hving in this hell. 

For I lived in a hell, who saw around me 

Such lying, hatred, malice, prostitution. 

And when this offer came to be an editor 

Of a great magazine, I seemed to feel 

My courage and my virtue given reward. 

Now, I should pass on poems, and on stories, 

Creations of free souls. It was not so. 

The poems and the stories one could see 

Were written to be sold, to please a taste, 

Placate a prejudice, keep still alive 

An era dying, ready for the tomb, 

Already smelling. And that was not all. 

Just as the madam here must make report 

To Perko, so the magazine had to run 

To suit the pulp mill. As the madam here, 

Assistant to Christ Perko, must keep friends 

With alderman, policemen, magistrates. 

So I was just a wheel in a machine 

To keep it running with such larger wheels, 

And by them run, of policies, and politics 

Of State and Nation. Here was I locked in 

And given dope to keep me still lest I 

Cry out and wake the copper — who's the copper 

For such as I was? If he heard me cry 

How could he raid the magazine? If he raided 

Where was the court to take me and the rest — 

That's it, where is the court? 

[56] 



DIALOGUE AT PERKO'S 

Florence 

It seems to me 
You're bad as I am. 

Jack 

I am worse than you : 
I poison minds with thoughts they take as good. 
I drug an era, make it foul or dull — 
You only sicken bodies here and there. 
But you know how it is. You have remorse, 
You fight it down, hush it with sophistry. 
You think about the world, about your fellows: 
You see that everyone is selling self, 
Little or much somehow. You feed your body. 
Try to be hearty, take things as they come. 
You take athletics, try to keep your strength. 
As you hear music, laugh, drink wine, and smoke. 
Are bathed and coifed to keep your beauty fresh. 
And through it all the soul's and body's needs. 
The pleasures, interests, passions of our life. 
The cry that comes from somewhere: "Live, O Soul, 
The time is passing," move and claim your strength. 
Till you forget yourself, forget the boy 
And man you were, forget the dreams you had. 
The creed you wished to live by — yes, what's worse. 
See dreams you had, grown tawdry, see your creed 
Cracked through and crumbled like a falling house. 
And then you say: What is the difference? 

[57] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

As you might ask what virtue is and why- 
Should woman keep it. 

I have reached this place 
Save for one truth I hold to, shall still hold to: 
As long as I have breath: The man who sees not, 
Or cares not for the Truth that keeps the world 
From vast disintegration is a brute. 
And marked for a brute's death — that is his hell. 
'Twas loyalty to this truth that made me lose 
My place as editor. For when they came 
And tried to make me pass an article 
To poison millions with, I said, "I won't, 
I won't by God. I'll quit before I do." 
And then they said, " You quit," and so I quit. 

Florence 

And so you took to drink and came to me! 
And that's the same as if I came to you 
And used you as an editor. I am nothing 
But just a poor reporter in this house — 
But now I quit. 

Jack 
Where are you going, Florence.? 

Florence 

I'm going to a village or a farm 

Where I'll get up at six instead of twelve, 

[58] 



DIALOGUE AT PERKO'S 

Where I'll wear calico instead of silk, 

And where there'll be no furnace in the house. 

And where the carpet which has kept me here 

And keeps you here as editor is not. 

I'm going to economize my life 

By freeing it of systems which grow rich 

By using me, and for the privilege 

Bestow these gaudy clothes and perfumed bed. 

I hate you now, because I hate my life. 

Jack 
Wait! Wait a minute. 

Florence 

Dinah, call a cab! 



59 



SIR GALAHAD 

I met Hosea Job on Randolph Street 
Who said to me: "I'm going for the train, 
I want you with me." 

And it happened then 
My mind was hard, as muscles of the back 
Grow hard resisting cold or shock or strain 
And need the osteopath to be made supple, 
To give the nerves and streams of life a chance. 
Hosea Job was just the osteopath 
To loose, relax my mood. And so I said 
"All right" — and went. 

Hosea was a man 
Whom nothing, touched of danger, or of harm. 
His life was just a rare-bit dream, where some one 
Seems like to fall before a truck or train — 
Instead he walks across them. Or you see 
Shadows of falling things, great buildings topple, 
Pianos skid like bulls from hellish corners 
And chase the oblivious fool who stands and smiles. 
The buildings slant and sway like monstrous search- 
lights. 
But never touch him. And the mad piano 
Comes up to him, puts down its angry head, 

[60] 



SIR GALAHAD 

Runs out a friendly tongue and licks his hand. 
And lows a symphony. 

By which I mean 
Hosea had some money, and would sign 
A bond or note for any man who asked him. 
He'd rent a house and leave it, rent another, 
Then rent a farm, move out from town and in. 
He'd have the leases of superfluous places 
Cancelled some how, was never sued for rent. 
One time he had a fancy he would see 
South Africa, took ship with a load of mules, 
First telegraphing home from New Orleans 
He'd be back in the Spring. Likewise he went 
To Klondike with the rush. I think he owned 
More kinds of mining stock than there were mines. 
He had more quaint, peculiar men for friends 
Than one could think were living. He believed 
In every doctrine in its time, that promised 
Salvation for the world. He took no thought 
For life or for to-morrow, or for health. 
Slept with his windows closed, ate what he wished. 
And if he cut his finger, let it go. 
I offered him peroxide once, he laughed. 
And when I asked him if his soul was saved 
He only said: "I see things. I lie back 
And take it easy. Nothing can go wrong 
In any serious sense." 

[6il 



TOWARD THE GULF 

So many thought 
Hosea was a nut, and others thought, 
That I was just a nut for liking him. 
And what would any man of business say 
If he knew that I didn't ask a question, 
But simply went with him to take the train 
That day he asked me. 

And the train had gone 
Five miles or so when I said: "Where you going? 
Hosea answered, and it made me start — 
Hosea answered simply, "We are going 
To see Sir Galahad." 

It made me start 
To hear Hosea say this, for I thought 
He was now really off. But, I looked at him 
And saw his eyes were sane. 

"Sir Galahad? 
"Who is Sir Galahad?" 

Hosea answered: 
"I'm going up to see Sir Galahad, 
And sound him out about re-entering 
The game and run for governor again." 

So then I knew he was the man our fathers 
Worked with and knew and called Sir Galahad, 

[62] 



SIR GALAHAD 

Now in retirement fifteen years or so. 

Well, I was twenty-five when he was famous. 

Sir Galahad was forty then, and now 

Must be some fifty-five while I am forty. 

So flashed across my thought the matter of time 

And ages. So I thought of all he did: 

Of how he went from faith to faith in politics 

And ran for every office up to governor. 

And ran for governor four times or so. 

And never was elected to an office. 

He drew more bills to remedy injustice. 

Improve the courts, relieve the poor, reform 

Administration, than the legislature 

Could read, much less digest or understand. 

The people beat him and the leaders flogged him. 

They shut the door against his face until 

He had no place to go except a farm 

Among the stony hills, and there he went. 

And thither we were going to see the knight. 

And call him from his solitude to the fight 

Against injustice, greed. 

So we got off 
The train at Alden, just a little village 
Of fifty houses lying beneath the sprawl 
Of hills and hills. And here there was a stillness 
Made lonelier by an anvil ringing, by 
A plow-man's voice at intervals. 

[63] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Here Hosea 
Engaged a horse and buggy, and we drove 
And wound about a crooked road between 
Great hills that stood together like the backs 
Of elephants in a herd, where boulders lay 
As thick as hail in places. Ruined pines 
Stood like burnt matches. There was one which stuck 
Against a single cloud so white it seemed 
A bursted bale of cotton. 

We reached the summit 
And drove along past orchards, past a field 
Level and green, kept like a garden, rich 
Against the coming harvest. Here we met 
A scarecrow man, driving a scarecrow horse 
Hitched to a wobbly wagon. And we stopped. 
The scarecrow stopped. The scarecrow and Hosea 
Talked much of people and of farming — I 
Sat listening, and I gathered from the talk, 
And what Hosea told me as we drove, 
That once this field so level and so green 
The scarecrow owned. He had cleaned out the stumps. 
And tried to farm it, failed, and lost the field, 
But raged to lose it, thought he might succeed 
In further time. Now having lost the field 
So many years ago, could be a scarecrow. 
And drive a scarecrow horse, yet laugh again 
And have no care, the sorrow healed. 

[64] 



SIR GALAHAD 

It seemed 
The clearing of the stumps was scarce a starter 
Toward a field of profit. For In truth, 
The soil possessed a secret which the scarecrow 
Never went deep enough to learn about. 
His problem was all stumps. Not solving that. 
He sold it to a farmer who out-slaved 
The busiest bee, but only half succeeded. 
He tried to raise potatoes, made a failure. 
He planted it in beans, had half a crop. 
He sowed wheat once and reaped a stack of straw. 
The secret of the soil eluded him. 
And here Hosea laughed: "This fellow's failure 
Was just the thing that gave another man 
The secret of the soil. For he had studied 
The properties of soils and fertilizers. 
And when he heard the field had failed to raise 
Potatoes, beans and wheat, he simply said: 
There are other things to raise: the question is 
Whether the soil is suited to the things 
He tried to raise, or whether it needs building 
To raise the things he tried to raise, or whether 
It must be builded up for anything. 
At least he said the field is clear of stumps. 
Pass on your field, he said. If I lose out 
I'll pass it on. The field is his, he said 
Who can make something grow. 

[65] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

And so this field 
Of waving wheat along which we were driving 
Was just the very field the scarecrow man 
Had failed to master, as that other man 
Had failed to master after him. 

Hosea 
Kept talking of this field as we drove on. 
That field, he said, is economical 
Of men compared with many fields. You see 
It only used two men. To grub the stumps 
Took all the scarecrow's strength. That other man 
Ran off to Oklahoma from this field. 
I have known fields that ate a dozen men 
In country such as this. The field remains 
And laughs and waits for some one who divines 
The secret of the field. Some farmers live 
To prove what can't be done, and narrow down 
The guess of what is possible. It's right 
A certain crop should prosper and another 
Should fail, and when a farmer tries to raise 
A crop before it's time, he wastes himself 
And wastes the field to try. 

We now were climbing 
To higher hills and rockier fields. Hosea 
Had fallen into silence. I was thinking 
About Sir Galahad, was wondering 

[661 



SIR GALAHAD 

Which man he was, the scarecrow, or the farmer 
Who didn't know the seed to sow, or whether 
He might still prove the farmer raising wheat. 
Now we were come to give him back the field 
With all the stumps grubbed out, the secret lying 
Revealed and ready for the appointed hands. 

We passed an orchard growing on a knoll 

And saw a barn perked on a rocky hill. 

And near the barn a house. Hosea said: 

"This is Sir Galahad's." We tied the horse. 

And we were in the silence of the country 

At mid-day on a day in June. No bird 

Was singing, fowl was cackling, cow was lowing. 

No dog was barking. All was summer stillness. 

We crossed a back-yard past a windlass well. 

Dodged under clothes lines through a place of chips, 

Walked in a path along the house. I said: 

"Sir Galahad is ploughing, or perhaps 

Is mending fences, cutting weeds." It seemed 

Too bad to come so far and not to find him. 

"We'll find him," said Hosea. "Let us sit 

Under that tree and wait for him." 

And then 
We turned the corner of the house and there 
Under a tree an old man sat, his head 
Bowed down upon his breast, locked fast in sleep, 

[67] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

And by his feet a dog half blind and fat 
Lay dozing, too inert to rise and bark. 

Hosea gripped my arm. "Be still" he said. 
"Let's ask him where Sir Galahad is," said L 
And then Hosea whispered, "God forgive me, 
I had forgotten, you too have forgotten. 
The man is old, he's very old. The years 
Go by unnoticed. Come! Sir Galahad 
Should sleep and not be waked." 

We tip-toed off 
And hurried back to Alden for the train. 



68] 



ST. DESERET 

You wonder at my bright round eyes, my lips 
Pressed tightly like a venomous rosette. 
Thus do me honor by so much, fond wretch, 
And praise my Persian beauty, dulcet voice. 
But oh you know me, read me, passion blinds 
Your vision not at all, and you have passion 
For me and what I am. How can you be so.? 
Hold me so bear-like, take my lips with yours. 
Bury your face in these my russet tresses. 
And yet not lose your vision ? So I love you, 
And fear you too. How idle to deny it 
To you who know I fear you. 

Here am I 
Who answer you what e'er you choose to ask. 
You stride about my rooms and open books, 
And say when did he give you this ? You pick 
His photograph from mantels, dressers, drawl 
Out of ironic strength, and smile the while: 
"You did not love this man." You probe my soul 
About his courtship, how I ran away, 
How he pursued with gifts from city to city, 
Threw bouquets to me from the pit, or stood 

[69] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Like Cleopatra's Giant negro guard, 
Watchful and waiting at the green-room door. 
So, devil, that you are, with needle pricks, 
One little question at a time, you've inked 
The story in my flesh. And now at last 
You smile and say I killed him. Well, it's true. 
But what a death he had! Envy him that. 
Your frigid soul can never win the death 
I gave him. 

Listen since you know already 
All but the subtlest matters. How you laugh! 
You know these too ? Well, only I can tell them. 

First 'twas a piteous thing to see a man 

So love a woman, see a living thing 

So love another. Why he could not touch 

My hand but that his heart went up ten beats. 

His eyes would grow as bright as flames, his breath 

Come short when speaking. When he felt my 

breast 
Crush soft around him he would reel and walk 
Away from me, while I stood like a snake 
Poised for the strike, as quiet and possessed 
As a dead breeze. And you can have me wholly, 
And pet and pat me like a favored child. 
And let me go my way, while you turn back 
To what you left for me. 

[70] 



ST. DESERET 

Not so with him: 
I was all through his blood, had made his flesh 
My flesh, his nerves, brain, soul all mine at last, 
Dreams, thoughts, emotions, hungers all my own. 
So that he lived two lives, his own and mine. 
With one poor body, which he gave to me. 
Save that he could not give what I pushed back 
Into his hands to use for me and live 
My pities, hatreds, loves and passions with. 
I loved all this and thrived upon it, still 
I did not love him. Then why marry him ? 
Why don't you see? It meant so much to him. 
And 'twas a little thing for me to do. 
His loneliness, his hunger, his great passion 
That showed in his poor eyes, his broken breath, 
His chivalry, his gifts, his poignant letters. 
His failing health, why even woman's cruelty 
Cannot deny such passion. Woman's cruelty 
Takes other means for finding its expression. 
And mine found its expression — you have guessed 
And so I tell you all. 

We were married then. 
He made a sacrament of our nuptials, 
Knelt with closed eyes beside the bed, my lips 
Pressed to his brow and throat. Unveiled my breast 
And looked, then closed his eyes. He did not take me 
As man takes his possession, nature's way, 

l7i] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

In triumph of life, in lightning, no, he came 
A suppliant, a worshipper, and whispered: 
"What angel child may lie upon the breast 
Of this it's angel mother." 

Well, you see 
The tears came in my eyes, for pity of him. 
Who made so much of what I had to give. 
And could give easily whether 'twas my rapture 
To give or to withhold. And in that moment 
Contempt of which I had been scarcely conscious 
Lying diffused like dew around my heart 
Drained down itself into my heart's dark cup 
To one bright drop of vital power, where 
He could not see it, scarcely knew that something 
Gradually drugged the potion that he drank 
In life with me. 

So we were wed a year, 
And he was with me hourly, till at last 
I could not breathe for him, while he could breathe 
No where but where I was. Then the bazaar 
Was coming on where I was to dance, and he 
Had long postponed a trip to England where 
Great interests waited for him, and with kisses 
I pushed him to his duty, and he went 
Shame stricken for a duty long postponed, 
Unable to retort against my words 

[72] 



ST. DESERET 

When I said "You must go;" for well he knew 
He should have gone before. And as for going 
I pleaded the bazaar and hate of travel. 
And got him off, and freed myself to breathe. 

His life had been too fast, his years too many 

To stand the strain that came. There was the worry 

About the business, and the labor over it. 

There was the war, and all the fear and turmoil 

In London for the war. But most of all 

There was the separation. And his letters! 

You've read them, wretch. Such letters never were 

Of aching loneliness and pining love 

And hope that lives across three thousand miles, 

And waits the day to travel them, and fear 

Of something which may bar the way forever: 

A storm, a wreck, a submarine and no day 

Without a letter or a cablegram. 

And look at the endearments — oh you fiend 

To pick their words to pieces like a botanist 

Who cuts a flower up for his microscope. 

And oh myself who let you see these letters. 

Why did I do it? Rather why is it 

You master me, even as I mastered him ? 

At last he finished, got his passage back. 

He had been gone three months. And all these letters 

Showed how he starved for me, and scarce could wait 

[73] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

To take me in his arms again, would choke 
With fast and heavy feeding. 

Well, you see 
The contempt I spoke of which lay long diffused 
Like dew around my heart, and which at once 
Drained down itself into my heart's dark cup 
Grew brighter, bitterer, for this obvious hunger, 
This thirst which could not wait, the piteous trembling. 
And all the while it seemed he thought his love 
Grew sacreder as it grew uncontrolled, 
And marked by trembling, choking, tears and sighs. 
This is not love which should be, has no use 
In this or any world. And as for me 
I could not stand it longer. And I thought 
Of what was best to do: if 'twas not best 
To kill him as the queen bee kills the mate 
In rapture's own excess. 

Then he arrived. 
I went to meet him in the car, pretended 
The feed pipe broke while I was on the way. 
I was not at the station when he came. 
I got back to the house and found him gone. 
He had run through the rooms calling my name, 
So Mary told me. Then he went around 
From place to place, wherever in the village 
He thought to find me. 

[74] 



ST. DESERET 

Soon I heard his steps, 
The key in the door, his winded breath, his call, 
His running, stumbling up the stairs, while 1 
Stood silent as a shadow in our room. 
My round bright eyes grown brighter for the light 
His Hfe was feeding them. And then he stood 
Breathless and trembling in the door-way, stood 
Transfixed with ecstacy, then rushed and caught me 
And broke into loud tears. 

It had to end. 
One or the other of us had to die. 
1 could not die but by a violence, 
And he could die by love alone, and love 
I gave him to his death. 

Why tell you details 
And ways with which I maddened him, and whipped 
The energies of love? You have extracted 
The secret in the main, that 'twas from love 
He came to death. His life had been too fast, 
His years too many for the daily rapture 
I gave him after three months' separation. 
And so he died one morning, made me free 
Of nothing but his presence in the flesh. 
His love is on me yet, and its effect. 
And now you're here to slave me diff^erently — 
No soul is ever free. 

[75] 



HEAVEN IS BUT THE HOUR 

Eyes wide for wisdom, calm for joy or pain, 

Bright hair alloyed with silver, scarcely gold. 

And gracious lips flower pressed like buds to hold 

The guarded heart against excess of rain. 

Hands spirit tipped through which a genius plays 

With paints and clays, 

And strings in many keys — 

Clothed in an aura of thought as soundless as a flood 

Of sun-shine where there is no breeze. 

So is it light in spite of rhythm of blood. 

Or turn of head, or hands that move, unite — 

Wind cannot dim or agitate the light. 

From Plato's idea stepping, wholly wrought 

From Plato's dream, made manifest in hair, 

Eyes, lips and hands and voice, 

As if the stored up thought 

From the earth sphere 

Had given down the being of your choice 

Conjured by the dream long sought. 

For you have moved in madness, rapture, wrath 

In and out of the path 

Drawn by the dream of a face. 

You have been watched, as star-men watch a star 

[76] 



HEAVEN IS BUT THE HOUR 

That leaves its way, returns and le'aves its way, 
Until the exploring watchers find, can trace 
A hidden star beyond their sight, whose sway 
Draws the erratic star so long observed — 
So have you wandered, swerved. 



Always pursued and lost. 

Sometimes half found, half-faced. 

Such years we waste 

With the almost: 

The lips flower pressed like buds to hold 

Guarded the heart of the flower. 

But over them eyes not hued as the Dream foretold. 

Or to find the lips too rich and the dower 

Of eyes all gaiety 

Where wisdom scarce can be. 

Or to find the eyes, but to find offence 

In fingers where the sense 

Falters with colors, strings. 

Not touching with closed eyes, out of an immanence 

Of flame and wings. 

Or to find the light, but to find it set behind 

An eye which is not your dream, nor the shadow thereof, 

As it were your lamp in a stranger's window. 

And so almost to find 

In the great weariness of love. 



n 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Now this is the tragedy: 

If the Idea did not move 

Somewhere in the realm of Love, 

Clothing itself in flesh at last for you to see, 

You could scarcely follow the gleam. 

And the tragedy is when Life has made you over, 

And denied you, and dulled your dream, 

And you no longer count the cost. 

Nor the past lament, 

You are sitting oblivious of your discontent 

Beside the Almost — 

And then the face appears 

Evoked from the Idea by your dead desire. 

And blinds and burns you like fire. 

And you sit there without tears. 

Though thinking it has come to kill you, or mock your 

youth 
With its half of the truth. 



A beach as yellow as gold 

Daisied with tents for a lovely mile. 

And a sea that edges and walls the sand with blue. 

Matching the heaven without a seam. 

Save for the threads of foam that hold 

With stitches the canopy rare as the tile 

Of old Damascus. And O the wind 

Which roars to the roaring water brightened 

[78] 



HEAVEN IS BUT THE HOUR 

By the beating wings of the sun ! 

And here I walk, not seeking the Dream, 

As men walk absent of heart or mind 

Who have no wish for a sorrow lightened 

Since all things now seem lost or won. 

And here it is that your face appears! 

Like a star brushed out from leaves by a breeze 

When day's in the sky, though evening nears. 

You are here by a tent with your little brood, 

And I approach in a quiet mood 

And see you, know that the Destinies 

Have surrendered you at last. 

Voice, lips and hands and the light of the eyes. 



And I who have asked so much discover 
That you find in me the man and lover 
You have divined and visualized. 
In quiet day dreams. And what is strange 
Your boy of eight is subtly guised 
In fleeting looks that half resemble 
Something in me. Two souls may range 
Mid this earth's billion souls for life. 
And hide their hunger or dissemble. 
For there are two at least created. 
Endowed with alien powers that draw, 
And kindred powers that by some law 
Bind souls as like as sister, brother. 

[79] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

There are two at least who are for each other. 
If we are such, it is not fated 
You are for him, howe'er belated 
The time's for us. 



And yet is not the time gone by? 

Your garden has been planted, dear. 

And mine with weeds is over-grown. 

Oh yes! 'tis only late July! 

We can replant, ere frosts appear. 

Gather the blossoms we have sown. 

And I have preached that hearts should seize 

The hour that brings realities. . . . 

Yes, I admit it all, we crush 

Under our feet the world's contempt. 

But when I raise the cup, it's blush 

Reveals the snake's eyes, there's a hush 

While a hand writes upon the wall: 

Life cannot be re-made, exempt 

From life that has been, something's gone 

Out of the soil, in life updrawn 

To growths that vine, and tangle, crawl, 

Withered in part, or gone to seed. 

'Tis not the same, though you have freed * 

The soil from what was grown. . . . 

:{: 4: 4: 4: 4^ 

[8o] 



HEAVEN IS BUT THE HOUR 

Heaven is but the hour 

Of the planting of the flower. 

But heaven is the blossom to be, 

Of the one Reality. 

And heaven cannot undo the once sown ground. 

But heaven is love in the pursuing, 

And in the memory of having found. . . . 

The rocks in the river make light and sound 
And show that the waters search and move. 
And what is time but an infinite whole 
Revealed by the breaks in thought, desire? 
To put it away is to know one's soul. 
Love is music unheard and fire 
Too rare for eyes; between hurt beats 
The heart detects it, sees how pure 
Its essence is, through heart defeats. — 
You are the silence making sure 
The sound with which it has to cope. 
My sorrow and as well my hope. 



[8i] 



VICTOR RAFOLSKI ON ART 

You dull Goliaths clothed in coats of blue. 
Strained and half bursted by the swell of flesh, 
Topped by Gorilla heads. You Marmoset, 
Trained scoundrel, taught to question and ensnare, 
I hate you, hate your laws and hate your courts. 
Hands off, give me a chair, now let me be. 
ni tell you more than you can think to ask me. 
I love this woman, but what is love to you? 
What is it to your laws or courts? I love her. 
She loves me, if you'd know. I entered her room — 
She stood before me naked, shrank a little. 
Cried out a little, calmed her sudden cry 
When she saw amiable passion in my eyes — 
She loves me, if you'd know. I saw in her eyes 
More in those moments than whole hours of talk 
From witness stands exculpate could make clear 
My innocence. 

But if I did a crime 
My excuse is hunger, hunger for more life. 
Oh what a world, where beauty, rapture, love 
Are walled in and locked up like coal or food 
And only may he had by purchasers 
From whose fat fingers slip the unheeded gold. 

[82] 



VICTOR RAFOLSKI ON ART 

Oh what a world where beauty lies in waste, 
While power and freedom skulk with famished lips 
Too tightly pressed for curses. 

So do men, 
Save for the thousandth man, deny themselves 
And live in meagreness to make sure a life 
Of meagreness by hearth stones long since stale; 
And live in ways, companionships as fixed 
As the geared figures of the Strassburg clock. 
You wonder at war ? Why war lets loose desires. 
Emotions long repressed. Would you stop war? 
Then let men live. The moral equivalent 
Of war is freedom. Art does not suffice — 
Religion is not life, but life is living. 
And painted cherries to the hungry thrush 
Is art to life. The artist lived his work. 
You cannot live his life who love his work. 
You are the thrush that pecks at painted cherries 
Who hope to live through art. Beer-soaked Goliaths, 
The story's coming of her nakedness 
Be patient for a time. 

All this I learned 
While painting pictures no one ever bought, 
Till hunger drove me to this servile work 
As butler in her father's house, with time 
On certain days to walk the galleries 
And look at pictures, marbles. For I saw 

[83 1 



J 



TOWARD THE GULF 

I was not living while I painted pictures. 

I was not living working for a crust, 

I was not living walking galleries: 

All this was but vicarious life which felt 

Through gazing at the thing the artist made. 

In memory of the life he lived himself: 

As we preserve the fragrance of a flower 

By drawing off its essence in a bottle, 

Where color, fluttering leaves, are thrown away 

To get the inner passion of the flower 

Extracted to a bottle that a queen 

May act the flower's part. 

Say what you will, 
Make laws to strangle life, shout from your pulpits. 
Your desks of editors, your woolsack benches 
Where judges sit, that this dull hypocrite. 
You call the State, has fashioned life aright — 
The secret is abroad, from eye to eye 
The secret passes from poor eyes that wink 
In boredom, in fatigue, in furious strength 
Roped down or barred, that what the human heart 
Dreams of and hopes for till the aspiring flame 
Flaps in the guttered candle and goes out. 
Is love for body and for spirit, love 
To satisfy their hunger. Yet what is it. 
This earth, this life, what is it but a meadow 
Where spirits are left free a little while 

[84] 



VICTOR RAFOLSKI ON ART 

Within a little space, so long as strength, 

Flesh, blood increases to the day of use 

As roasts or stews wherewith this witless beast. 

Society may feed himself and keep 

His olden shape and power? 

Fools go crop 
The herbs they turn you to, and starve yourself 
For what you want, and count it righteousness, 
No less you covet love. Poor shadows sighing. 
Across the curtain racing! Mangled souls 
Pecking so feebly at the painted cherries. 
Inhaling from a bottle what was lived 
These summers gone! You know, and scarce deny 
That what we men desire are horses, dogs. 
Loves, women, insurrections, travel, change. 
Thrill in the wreck and rapture for the change. 
And re-adjusted order. 

As I turned 
From painting and from art, yet found myself 
Full of all lusts while bound to menial work 
Where my eyes daily rested on this woman 
A thought came to me like a little spark 
One sees far down the darkness of a cave. 
Which grows into a flame, a blinding light 
As one approaches it, so did this thought 
Both burn and blind me: For I loved this woman, 

[85] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

I wanted her, why should I lose this woman? 

What was there to oppose possession? Will? 

Her will, you say? I am not sure, but then 

Which will is better, mine or hers? Which will 

Deserves achievement? Which has rights above 

The other? I desire her, her desire 

Is not toward me, which of these two desires 

Shall triumph? Why not mine for me and hers 

For her, at least the stronger must prevail. 

And wreck itself or bend all else before it. 

That millionaire who wooed her, tried in vain 

To overwhelm her will with gold, and I 

With passion, boldness would have overwhelmed it, 

And what's the difference? 

But as I said 
I walked the galleries. When I stood in the yard 
Bare armed, bare throated at my work, she came 
And gazed upon me from her window. I 
Could feel the exhausting influence of her eyes. 
Then in a concentration which was blindness 
To all else, so bewilderment of mind, 
I'd go to see Watteau's Antiope 
Where he sketched Zeus in hunger, drawing back 
The veil that hid her sleeping nakedness. 
There was Correggio's too, on whom a satyr 
Smiled for his amorous wonder. A Semele, 
Done by an unknown hand, a thing of lightning 

[861 



VICTOR RAFOLSKI ON ART 

Moved through by Zeus who seized her as the flames 
Consumed her ravished beauty. 

So I looked, 
And trembled, then returned perhaps to find 
Her eyes upon me conscious, calm, elate. 
And radiate with lashes of surprise. 
Delight as when a star is still but shines. 
And on this night somehow our natures worked 
To climaxes. For first she dressed for dinner 
To show more back and bosom than before. 
And as I served her, her down-looking eyes 
Were more than glances. Then she dropped her napkin. 
Before I could begin to bend she leaned 
And let me see — oh yes, she let me see 
The white foam of her little breasts caressing 
The scarlet flame of silk, a swooning shore 
Of bright carnations. It was from such foam 
That Venus rose. And as I stooped and gave 
The napkin to her she pushed out a foot. 
And then I coughed for breath grown short, and she 
Concealed a smile — and you, you jailers laugh 
Coarse-mouthed, and mock my hunger. 

I go on. 
Observe how courage, boldness mark my steps! 
At nine o'clock she climbs to her boudoir. 
I finding errands in the hallway hear 

[87] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

The desultory taking up of books, 
And through her open door, see her at last 
Cast off her dinner gown and to the bath 
Step like a ray of moonlight. Then she snaps 
The light on where the onyx tub and walls 
Dazzle the air. I enter then her room 
And stand against the closed door, do not pry 
Upon her in the bath. Give her the chance 
To fly me, fight me standing face to face. 
I hear her flounder in the water, hear 
Hands slap and slip with water breast and arms; 
Hear little sighs and shudders and the roughness 
Of crash towels on her back, when in a minute 
She stands with back toward me in the doorway, 
A sea-shell glory, pink and white to hair 
Sun-lit, a lily crowned with powdered gold. 
She turned toward her dresser then and shook 
White dust of talcum on her arms, and looked 
So lovingly upon her tense straight breasts. 
Touching them under with soft tapering hands 
To blue eyes deepening like a brazier flame 
Turned by a sudden gust. Who gives her these, 
The thought ran through me, for her joy alone 
And not for mine ? 

So I stood there like Zeus 
Coming in thunder to Semele, like 
The diety of Watteau. Correggio 

[88] 



VICTOR RAFOLSKI ON ART 

Had never painted me a satyr there 
Drinking her beauty in, so worshipful, 
My will subdued in worship of her beauty 
To obey her will. 

And then she turned and saw me, 
And faced me in her nakedness, nor tried 
To hide it from me, faced me immovable 
A Mona Lisa smile upon her lips. 
And let me plead my cause, make known my love, 
Speak out my torture, wearing still the smile. 
Let me approach her till I almost touched 
The whiteness of her bosom. Then it seemed 
That smile of hers not wilting me she clapped 
Hands over eyes and said: "I am afraid — 
Oh no, it cannot be — what would they say.?" 
Then rushing in the bathroom, quick she slammed 
The door and shrieked: "You scoundrel, go — you 

beast." 
My dream went up like paper charred and whirled 
Above a hearth. Thrilling I stood alone 
Amid her room and saw my life, our life 
Embodied in this woman lately there 
Lying and cowardly. And as I turned 
To leave the room, her father and the gardener 
Pounced on me, threw me down a flight of stairs 
And turned me over, stunned, to you the law 
Here with these others who have stolen coal 

[89] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

To keep them warm, as I have stolen beauty 
To keep from freezing in this arid country 
Of winter winds on which the dust of custom 
Rides Hke a fog. 

Now do your worst to me! 



[90] 



THE LANDSCAPE 

You and your landscape! There it lies 

Stripped, resuming its disguise, 

Clothed in dreams, made bare again. 

Symbol infinite of pain, 

Rapture, magic, mystery 

Of vanished days and days to be. 

There's its sea of tidal grass 

Over which the south winds pass. 

And the sun-set's Tuscan gold 

Which the distant windows hold 

For an instant like a sphere 

Bursting ere it disappear. 

There's the dark green woods which throve 

In the spell of Leese's Grove. 

And the winding of the road; 

And the hill o'er which the sky 

Stretched its pallied vacancy 

Ere the dawn or evening glowed. 

And the wonder of the town 

Somewhere from the hill-top down 

Nestling under hills and woods f 

And the meadow's solitudes. [■ 



[91 1 



TOWARD THE GULF 

And your paper knight of old 
Secrets of the landscape told. 
And the hedge-rows where the pond 
Took the blue of heavens beyond 
The hastening clouds of gusty March. 
There you saw their wrinkled arch 
Where the East wind cracks his whips 
Round the little pond and clips 
Main-sails from your toppled ships. . . 

Landscape that in youth you knew 
Past and present, earth and you! 
All the legends and the tales 
Of the uplands, of the vales; 
Sounds of cattle and the cries 
Of ploughmen and of travelers 
Were its soul's interpreters. 
And here the lame were always lame. 
Always gray the gray of head. 
And the dead were always dead 
Ere the landscape had become 
Your cradle, as it was their tomb. 



And when the thunder storms would waken 
Of the dream your soul was not forsaken: 
In the room where the dormer windows look — 
There were your knight and the tattered book. 

[92] 



THE LANDSCAPE 

With colors of the forest green 
Gabled roofs and the demesne 
Of faery kingdoms and faery time 
Storied in pre-natal rhyme. . . . 
Past the orchards, in the plain 
The cattle fed on in the rain. 
And the storm-beaten horseman sped 
Rain blinded and with bended head. 
And John the ploughman comes and goes 
In labor wet, with steaming clothes. 
This is your landscape, but you see 
Not terror and not destiny 
Behind its loved, maternal face. 
Its power to change, or fade, replace 
Its wonder with a deeper dream. 
Unfolding to a vaster theme. 
From time eternal was this earth ? 
No less this landscape with your birth 
Arose, nor leaves you, nor decay 
Finds till the twilight of your day. 
It bore you, moulds you to its plan. 
It ends with you as it began, 
But bears the seed of future years 
Of higher raptures, dumber tears. 



For soon you lose the landscape through 
Absence, sorrow, eyes grown true 

[93] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

To the naked limbs which show 
Buds that never more may blow. 
Now you know the lame were straight 
Ere you knew them, and the fate 
Of the old is yet to die. 
Now you know the dead who lie 
In the graves you saw where first 
The landscape on your vision burst. 
Were not always dead, and now 
Shadows rest upon the brow 
Of the souls as young as you. 
Some are gone, though years are few 
Since you roamed with them the hills. 
So the landscape changes, wills 
All the changes, did it try 
Its promises to justify? . . . 



For you return and find it bare : 

There is no heaven of golden air. 

Your eyes around the horizon rove, 

A clump of trees is Leese's Grove. 

And what's the hedgerow, what's the pond ? 

A wallow where the vagabond 

Beast will not drink, and where the arch 

Of heaven in the days of March 

Refrains to look. A blinding rain 

Beats the once gilded window pane. 

[94] 



THE LANDSCAPE 

John, the poor wretch, is gone, but bread 
Tempts other feet that path to tread 
Between the barn and house, and brave 
The March rain and the winds that rave. . 
0, landscape I am one who stands 
Returned with pale and broken hands 
Glad for the day that I have known. 
And finds the deserted doorway strown 
With shoulder blade and spinal bone. 
And you who nourished me and bred 
I find the spirit from you fled. 
You gave me dreams, 'twas at your breast 
My soul's beginning rose and pressed 
My steps afar at last and shaped 
A world elusive, which escaped 
Whatever love or thought could find 
Beyond the tireless wings of mind. 
Yet grown by you, and feeding on 
Your strength as mother, you are gone 
When I return from living, trace 
My steps to see how I began. 
And deeply search your mother face 
To know your inner self, the place 
For which you bore me, sent me forth 
To wander, south or east or north. . . . 
Now the familiar landscape lies 
With breathless breast and hollow eyes. 
It knows me not, as I know not 

[95] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Its secret, spirit, all forgot 
Its kindred look is, as I stand 
A stranger in an unknown land. 



Are we not earth-born, formed of dust 

Which seeks again its love and trust 

In an old landscape, after change 

In hearts grown weary, wrecked and strange? 

What though we struggled to emerge 

Dividual, footed for the urge 

Of further self-discoveries, though 

In the mid-years we cease to know. 

Through disenchanted eyes, the spell 

That clothed it like a miracle — 

Yet at the last our steps return 

Its deeper mysteries to learn. 

It has been always us, it must 

Clasp to itself our kindred dust. 

We cannot free ourselves from it. 

Near or afar we must submit 

To what is in us, what was grown 

Out of the landscape's soil, the known 

And unknown powers of soil and soul. 

As bodies yield to the control 

Of the earth's center, and so bend 

In age, so hearts toward the end 

Bend down with lips so long athirst 

[96] 



THE LANDSCAPE 



To waters which were known at first- 
The Httle spring at Leese's Grove 
Was your first love, is your last love! 



When those we knew in youth have crept 
Under the landscape, which has kept 
Nothing we saw with youthful eyes; 
Ere God is formed in the empty skies, 
I wonder not our steps are pressed 
Toward the mystery of their rest. 
That is the hope at bud which kneels 
Where ancestors the tomb conceals. 
Age no less than youth would lean 
Upon some love. For what is seen 
No more of father, mother, friend, 
For hands of flesh lost, eyes grown blind 
In death, a something which assures, 
Comforts, allays our fears, endures. 
Just as the landscape and our home 
In childhood made of heaven's dome, 
And all the farthest ways of earth 
A place as sheltered as the hearth. 



Is it not written at the last day 

Heaven and earth shall roll away? 

Yes, as my landscape passed through death, 

[9?] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Lay like a corpse, and with new breath 

Became instinct with fire and light — 

So shall it roll up in my sight, 

Pass from the realm of finite sense, 

Become a thing of spirit, whence 

I shall pass too, its child in faith 

Of dreams it gave me, which nor death 

Nor change can wreck, but still reveal 

In change a Something vast, more real 

Than sunsets, meadows, green-wood trees, 

Or even faery presences. 

A Something which the earth and air 

Transmutes but keeps them what they were; 

Clear films of beauty grown more thin 

As we approach and enter in. 

Until we reach the scene that made 

Our landscape just a thing of shade. 



98] 



TO-MORROW IS MY BIRTHDAY 

Well, then, another drink ! Ben Jonson knows. 
So do you, Michael Drayton, that to-morrow 
I reach my fifty-second year. But hark ye. 
To-morrow lacks two days of being a month — 
Here is a secret — since I made my will. 
Heigh ho! that's done too! I wonder why I did it? 
That I should make a will! Yet it may be 
That then and jump at this most crescent hour 
Heaven inspired the deed. 

As a mad younker 
I knew an aged man in Warwickshire 
Who used to say, "Ah, mercy me," for sadness 
Of change, or passing time, or secret thoughts. 
If it was spring he sighed it, if 'twas fall. 
With drifting leaves, he looked upon the rain 
And with doleful suspiration kept 
This habit of his grief. And on a time 
As he stood looking at the flying clouds, 
I loitering near, expectant, heard him say it, 
Inquired, "Why do you say 'Ah, mercy me/ 
Now that it's April?" So he hobbled off 
And left me empty there. 

[99] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Now here am I! 
Oh, it is strange to find myself this age, 
And rustling like a peascod, though unshelled. 
And, like this aged man of Warwickshire, 
Slaved by a mood which must have breath — "Tra-Ia!' 
That's what I say instead of "Ah, mercy me." 
For look you, Ben, I catch myself with "Tra-la" 
The moment I break sleep to see the day. 
At work, alone, vexed, laughing, mad or glad 
I say, "Tra-la" unknowing. Oft at table 
I say, "Tra-la." And 'tother day, poor Anne 
Looked long at me and said, "You say, 'Tra-la' 
Sometimes when you're asleep; why do you so-f"' 
Then I bethought me of that aged man 
Who used to say, "Ah, mercy me," but answered: 
"Perhaps I am so happy when awake 
The song crops out in slumber — who can say? " 
And Anne arose, began to keel the pot. 
But was she answered, Ben? Who know a woman? 

To-morrow is my birthday. If I die, 
Slip out of this with Bacchus for a guide. 
What soul would interdict the poppied way? 
Heroes may look the Monster down, a child 
Can wilt a lion, who is cowed to see 
Such bland unreckoning of his strength — but I, 
Having so greatly lived, would sink away 
[ loo] 



TO-MORROW IS MY BIRTHDAY 

Unknowing my departure. I have died 
A thousand times, and with a valiant soul 
Have drunk the cup, but why? In such a death 
To-morrow shines and there's a place to lean. 
But in this death that has no bottom to it, 
No bank beyond, no place to step, the soul 
Grows sick, and like a falling dream we shrink 
From that inane which gulfs us, without place 
For us to stand and see it. 

Yet, dear Ben, 
This thing must be; that's what we live to know 
Out of long dreaming, saying that we know it. 
As yeasty heroes in their braggart teens 
Spout learnedly of war, who never saw 
A cannon aimed. You drink too much to-day, 
Or get a scratch while turning Lucy's stile. 
And like a beast you sicken. Like a beast 
They cart you off. What matter if your thought 
Outsoared the Phoenix.? Like a beast you rot. 
Methinks that something wants our flesh, as we 
Hunger for flesh of beasts. But still to-morrow, 
To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow 
Creeps in this petty pace — O, Michael Drayton, 
Some end must be. But 'twixt the fear of ceasing 
And weariness of going on we lie 
Upon these thorns! 

[ loi ] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

These several springs I find 
No new birth in the Spring, And yet in London 
I used to cry, "O, would I were in Stratford; 
It's April and the larks are singing now. 
The flags are green along the Avon river; 
O, would I were a rambler in the fields. 
This poor machine is racing to its wreck. 
This grist of thought is endless, this old sorrow 
Sprouts, winds and crawls in London's darkness. 

Come 
Back to your landscape! Peradventure waits 
Some woman there who will make new the earth, 
And crown the spring with fire." 

So back I come. 
And the springs march before me, say, " Behold 
Here are we, and what would you, can you use us?" 
What good is air if lungs are out, or springs 
When the mind's flown so far away no spring, 
Nor loveliness of earth can call it back? 
I tell you what it is: in early youth 
The life is in the loins; by thirty years 
It travels through the stomach to the lungs, 
And then we strut and crow. By forty years 
The fruit is swelling while the leaves are fresh. 
By fifty years you're ripe, begin to rot. 
At fifty-two, or fifty-five or sixty 
The life is in the seed — ^what's spring to you? 
[ 102] 



TO-MORROW IS MY BIRTHDAY 

PufF! PufF! You are so winged and light you fly. 

For every passing zephyr, are blown off, 

And drifting, God knows where, cry out "tra-la," 

"Ah, mercy me," as it may happen you. 

Puff! Puff! away you go! 

Another drink? 
Why, you may drown the earth with ale and I 
Will drain it like a sea. The more I drink 
The better I see that this is April time. . . . 

Ben! There is one Voice which says to everything: 

"Dream what you will, I'll make you bear your seed. 

And, having borne, the sickle comes among ye 

And takes your stalk." The rich and sappy greens 

Of spring or June show life within the loins. 

And all the world is fair, for now the plant 

Can drink the level cup of flame where heaven 

Is poured full by the sun. But when the blossom 

Flutters its colors, then it takes the cup 

And waves the stalk aside. And having drunk 

The stalk to penury, then slumber comes 

With dreams of spring stored in the imprisoned 

germ. 
An old life and a new life all in one, 
A thing of memory and of prophecy, 
Of reminiscence, longing, hope and fear. 
What has been ours is taken, what was ours 

[103] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Becomes entailed on our seed in the spring, 
Fees in possession and enjoyment too. . . . 

The thing is sex, Ben. It is that which lives 

And dies in us, makes April and unmakes, 

And leaves a man like me at fifty-two. 

Finished but living, on the pinnacle 

Betwixt a death and birth, the earth consumed 

And heaven rolled up to eyes whose troubled glances 

Would shape again to something better — what? 

Give me a woman, Ben, and I will pick 

Out of this April, by this larger art 

Of fifty-two, such songs as we have heard, 

Both you and I, when weltering in the clouds 

Of that eternity which comes in sleep. 

Or in the viewless spinning of the soul 

When most intense. The woman is somewhere. 

And that's what tortures, when I think this field 

So often gleaned could blossom once again 

If I could find her. 

Well, as to my plays: 
I have not written out what I would write. 
They have a thousand buds of finer flowering. 
And over "Hamlet" hangs a teasing spirit 
As fine to that as sense is fine to flesh. 
Good friends, my soul beats up its prisoned wings 
Against the ceiling of a vaster whorl 

[104] 



TO-MORROW IS MY BIRTHDAY 

And would break through and enter. But, fair friends, 

What strength in place of sex shall steady me? 

What is the motive of this higher mount? 

What process in the making of myself — 

The very fire, as it were, of my growth — 

Shall furnish forth these writings by the way. 

As incident, expression of the nature 

Relumed for adding branches, twigs and leaves? . . . 

Suppose I'd make a tragedy of this. 

Focus my fancied "Dante" to this theme, 

And leave my halfwrit "Sappho," which at best 

Is just another delving in the mine 

That gave me "Cleopatra" and the Sonnets? 

If you have genius, write my tragedy. 

And call it "Shakespeare, Gentleman of Stratford," 

Who lost his soul amid a thousand souls. 

And had to live without it, yet live with it 

As wretched as the souls whose lives he lived. 

Here is a play for you: Poor William Shakespeare, 

This moment growing drunk, the famous author 

Of certain sugared sonnets and some plays. 

With this machine too much to him, which started 

Some years ago, now cries him nay and runs 

Even when the house shakes and complains, "I fall. 

You shake me down, my timbers break apart. 

Why, if an engine must go on hke this 

The building should be stronger." 

[105] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Or to mix. 
And by the mixing, unmix metaphors, 
No mortal man has blood enough for brains 
And stomach too, when the brain is never done 
With thinking and creating. 

For you see, 
I pluck a flower, cut off* a dragon's head — 
Choose twixt these figures — lo, a dozen buds, 
A dozen heads out-crop. For every fancy, 
Play, sonnet, what you will, I write me out 
With thinking "Now I'm done," a hundred others 
Crowd up for voices, and, like twins unborn 
Kick and turn o'er for entrance to the world. 
And I, poor fecund creature, who would rest. 
As 'twere from an importunate husband, fly 
To money-lending, farming, mulberry trees, 
Enclosing Welcombe fields, or idling hours 
In common talk with people like the Combes. 
All this to get a heartiness, a hold 
On earth again, lest Heaven Hercules, 
Finding me strayed to mid-air, kicking heels 
Above the mountain tops, seize on my scruff" 
And bear me off" or strangle. 

Good, my friends, 
The "Tempest" is as nothing to the voice 
That calls me to performance — ^what I know not. 
[io6] 



TO-MORROW IS MY BIRTHDAY 

I've planned an epic of the Asian wash 
Which slopped the star of Athens and put out, 
Which should all history analyze, and present 
A thousand notables in the guise of life, 
And show the ancient world and worlds to come 
To the last blade of thought and tiniest seed 
Of growth to be. With visions such as these 
My spirit turns in restless ecstacy, 
And this enslaved brain is master sponge, 
And sucks the blood of body, hands and feet. 
While my poor spirit, like a butterfly 
Gummed in its shell, beats its bedraggled wings, 
And cannot rise. 

I'm cold, both hands and feet. 
These three days past I have been cold, this hour 
I am warm in three days. God bless the ale. 
God did do well to give us anodynes. . . . 
So now you know why I am much alone. 
And cannot fellow with Augustine Phillips, 
John Heminge, Richard Burbage, Henry Condell, 
And do not have them here, dear ancient friends. 
Who grieve, no doubt, and wonder for changed love. 
Love is not love which alters when it finds 
A change of heart, but mine has changed not, only 
I cannot be my old self. I blaspheme: 
I hunger for broiled fish, but fly the touch 
Of hands of flesh. 

[107] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

I am most passionate, 
And long am used perplexities of love 
To bemoan and to bewail. And do you wonder. 
Seeing what I am, what my fate has been? 
Well, hark. you; Anne is sixty now, and I, 
A crater which erupts, look where she stands 
In lava wrinkles, eight years older than I am, 
As years go, but I am a youth afire 
While she is lean and slippered. It's a Fury 
Which takes me sometimes, makes my hands clutch out 
For virgins in their teens. O sullen fancy! 
I want them not, I want the love which springs 
Like flame which blots the sun, where fuel of body 
Is piled in reckless generosity. . . . 
You are most learned, Ben, Greek and Latin know, 
And think me nature's child, scarce understand 
How much of physic, law, and ancient annals 
I have stored up by means of studious zeal. 
But pass this by, and for the braggart breath 
Ensuing now say, "Will was in his cups, 
Potvaliant, boozed, corned, squiffy, obfuscated. 
Crapulous, inter pocula, or so forth. 
Good sir, or so, or friend, or gentleman. 
According to the phrase or the addition 
Of man and country, on my honor, Shakespeare 
At Stratford, on the twenty-second of April, 
Year sixteen-sixteen of our Lord was merry — 
Videlicet, was drunk." Well, where was I? — 
[io8] 



TO-MORROW IS MY BIRTHDAY 

Oh yes, at braggart breath, and now to say it : 
I beheve and say it as I would lightly speak 
Of the most common thing to sense, outside 
Myself to touch or analyze, this mind 
Which has been used by Something, as I use 
A quill for writing, never in this world 
In the most high and palmy days of Greece, 
Or in this roaring age, has known its peer. 
No soul as mine has lived, felt, suffered, dreamed. 
Broke open spirit secrets, followed trails 
Of passions curious, countless lives explored 
As I have done. And what are Greek and Latin, 
The lore of Aristotle, Plato to this ? 
Since I know them by what I am, the essence 
From which their utterance came, myself a flower 
Of every graft and being in myself 
The recapitulation and the complex 
Of all the great. Were not brains before books.'' 
And even geometries in some brain 
Before old Gutenberg? fie, Ben Jonson, 
If I am nature's child am I not all? 
Howe'er it be, ascribe this to the ale, 
And say that reason in me was a fume. 
But if you honor me, as you have said. 
As much as any, this side idolatry. 
Think, Ben, of this: That I, whate'er I be 
In your regard, have come to fifty-two, 
Defeated in my love, who knew too well 
[ 109] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

That poets through the love of women turn 
To satyrs or to gods, even as women 
By the first touch of passion bloom or rot 
As angels or as bawds. 

Bethink you also 
How I have felt, seen, known the mystic process 
Working in man's soul from the woman soul 
As part thereof in essence, spirit and flesh. 
Even as a malady may be, while this thing 
Is health and growth, and growing draws all life, 
All goodness, wisdom for its nutriment. 
Till it become a vision paradisic. 
And a ladder of fire for climbing, from its topmost 
Rung a place for stepping into heaven. . . , 

This I have know, but had not. Nor have I 
Stood coolly off and seen the woman, used 
Her blood upon my palette. No, but heaven 
Commanded my strength's use to abort and slay 
What grew within me, while I saw the blood 
Of love untimely ripped, as 'twere a child 
Killed i' the womb, a harpy or an angel 
With my own blood stained. 

As a virgin shamed 
By the swelling life unlicensed needles it. 
But empties not her womb of some last shred 
Of flesh which fouls the alleys of her body, 

[no] 



TO-MORROW IS MY BIRTHDAY 

And fills her wholesome nerves with poisoned sleep, 

And weakness to the last of life, so I 

For some shame not unlike, some need of life 

To rid me of this life I had conceived 

Did up and choke it too, and thence begot 

A fever and a fixed debility 

For killing that begot. 

Now you see that I 
Have not grown from a central dream, but grown 
Despite a wound, and over the wound and used 
My flesh to heal my flesh. My love's a fever 
Which longed for that which nursed the malady. 
And fed on that which still preserved the ill. 
The uncertain, sickly appetite to please. 
My reason, the physician to my love. 
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept 
Has left me. And as reason is past care 
I am past cure, with ever more unrest 
Made frantic-mad, my thoughts as madmen's are. 
And my discourse at random from the truth, 
Not knowing what she is, who swore her fair 
And thought her bright, who is as black as hell 
And dark as night. 

But list, good gentlemen. 
This love I speak of is not as a cloak 
Which one may put away to wear a coat. 
And doff that for a jacket, like the loves 

[III] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

We men are wont to have as loves or wives. 
She is the very one, the soul of souls, 
And when you put her on you put on light, 
Or wear the robe of Nessus, poisonous fire, 
Which if you tear away you tear your life. 
And if you wear you fall to ashes. So 
'Tis not her bed-vow broke, I have broke mine, 
That ruins me; 'tis honest faith quite lost. 
And broken hope that we could find each other, 
And that mean more to me and less to her. 
'Tis that she could take all of me and leave me 
Without a sense of loss, without a tear. 
And make me fool and perjured for the oath 
That swore her fair and true. I feel myself 
As like a virgin who her body gives 
For love of one whose love she dreams is hers. 
But wakes to find herself a toy of blood, 
And dupe of prodigal breath, abandoned quite 
For other conquests. For I gave myself. 
And shrink for thought thereof, and for the loss 
Of myself never to myself restored. 
The urtication of this shame made plays 
And sonnets, as you'll find behind all deeds 
That mount to greatness, anger, hate, disgust, 
But, better, love. 

To hell with punks and wenches, 
Drabs, mopsies, doxies, minxes, trulls and queans, 

[112] 



TO-MORROW IS MY BIRTHDAY 

Rips, harridans and strumpets, pieces, jades. 
And likewise to the eternal bonfire lechers. 
All rakehells, satyrs, goats and placket fumblers, 
Gibs, breakers-in-at-catch-doors, thunder tubes. 
I think I have a fever — hell and furies! 
Or else this ale grows hotter i' the mouth. 
Ben, if I die before you, let me waste 
Richly and freely in the good brown earth, 
Untrumpeted and by no bust marked out. 
What good, Ben Jonson, if the world could see 
What face was mine, who wrote these plays and son- 
nets .? 
Life, you have hurt me. Since Death has a veil 
I take the veil and hide, and like great Csesar 
Who drew his toga round him, I depart. 

Good friends, let's to the fields — I have a fever. 

After a little walk, and by your pardon, 

I think I'll sleep. There is no sweeter thing, 

Nor fate more blessed than to sleep. Here, world, 

I pass you like an orange to a child: 

I can no more with you. Do what you will. 

What should my care be when I have no power 

To save, guide, mould you? Naughty world you need 

me 
As little as I need you: go your way! 
Tyrants shall rise and slaughter fill the earth. 
But 1 shall sleep. In wars and wars and wars 

[113] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

The ever-replenished youth of earth shall shriek 
And clap their gushing wounds — but I shall sleep, 
Nor earthy thunder wake me when the cannon 
Shall shake the throne of Tartarus. Orators 
Shall fulmine over London or America 
Of rights eternal, parchments, sacred charters 
And cut each others' throats when reason fails — 
But I shall sleep. This globe may last and breed 
The race of men till Time cries out "How long?" 
But I shall sleep ten thousand thousand years. 
I am a dream, Ben, out of a blessed sleep — 
Let's walk and hear the lark. 



[114] 



SWEET CLOVER 

Only a few plants up — and not a blossom 
My clover didn't catch. What is the matter? 
Old John comes by. I show him my result. 
Look, John! My clover patch is just a failure, 
I wanted you to sow it. Now you see 
What comes of letting Hunter do your work. 
The ground was not plowed right, or disced perhaps, 
Or harrowed fine enough, or too little seed 
Was sown. 

But John, who knows a clover field, 
Pulls up a plant and cleans the roots of soil 
And studies them. 

He says. Look at the roots ! 
Hunter neglected to inoculate 
The seed, for clover seed must always have 
Clover bacteria to make it grow, 
And blossom. In a thrifty field of clover 
The roots are studded thick with tubercles. 
Like little warts, made by bacteria. 
And somehow these bacteria lay hold 
Upon the nitrogen that fills the soil. 
And make the plants grow, make them blossom too. 

[115] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

When Hunter sowed this field he was not well: 
He should have hauled some top-soil to this field 
From some old clover field, or made a culture 
Of these bacteria and soaked the seed 
In it before he sowed it. 

As I said, 
Hunter was sick when he was working here. 
And then he ran away to Indiana 
And left his wife and children. Now he's back. 
His cough was just as bad in Indiana 
As it is here. A cough is pretty hard 
To run away from. Wife and children too 
Are pretty hard to leave, since thought of them 
Stays with a fellow and cannot be left. 
Yes, Hunter's back, but he can't work for you. 
He's straightening out his little farm and making 
Provision for his family. Hunter's changed. 
He is a better man. It almost seems 
That Hunter's blossomed. . . . 

I am sorry for him. 
The doctor says he has tuberculosis. 



[ii6 



SOMETHING BEYOND THE HILL 

To a western breeze 
A row of golden tulips is nodding. 
They flutter their golden wings 
In a sudden ecstacy and say: 
Something comes to us from beyond, 
Out of the sky, beyond the hill 
We give it to you. 



And I walk through rows of jonquils 

To a beloved door. 

Which you open. 

And you stand with the priceless gold of your tulip head 

Nodding to me, and saying: 

Something comes to me 

Out of the mystery of Eternal Beauty — 

I give it to you. 



There is the morning wonder of hyacinth in your eyes, 
And the freshness of June iris in your hands. 
And the rapture of gardenias in your bosom. 
But your voice is the voice of the robin 
Singing at dawn amid new leaves. 

[117] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

It is like sun-light on blue water 

Where the south-wind is on the water 

And the buds of the flags are green. 

It is like the wild bird of the sedges 

With fluttering wings on a wind-blown reed 

Showering lyrics over the sun-light 

Between rhythmical pauses 

When his heart has stopped, 

Making light and water 

Into song. 



Let me hear your voice, 

And the voice of Eternal Beauty 

Through the music of your voice. 

Let me gather the iris of your hands. 

Against my face. 

And close my eyes with your eyes. 

Let me listen with you 

For the Voice. 



[ii8] 



FRONT THE AGES WITH A SMILE 

How did the sculptor, Voltaire, keep you quiet and 

posed 
In an arm chair, just think, at your busiest age we are 

told. 
Being better than seventy? How did he manage to 

stay you 
From hopping through Europe for long enough time for 

his work. 
Which shows you in marble, the look and the smile and 

the nose. 
The filleted brow very bald, the thin little hands. 
The posture pontifical, face imperturbable, smile so 

serene. 
How did the sculptor detain you, you ever so restless. 
You ever so driven by princes and priests ? So I stand 

here 
Enwrapped of this face of you, frail little frame of you. 
And think of your work — how nothing could balk you 
Or quench you or damp you. How you twisted and 

turned. 
Emerged from the fingers of malice, emerged with a 

laugh, 
Kept Europe in laughter, in turmoil, in fear 
For your eighty-four years ! 

[119] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

And they say of you still 
You were light and a mocker! You should have been 

solemn, 
And argued with monkeys and swine, speaking truth- 
fully always. 
Nay, truthful with whom, to what end ? With a breed 

such as lived 
In your day and your place? It was never their due! 
Truth for the truthful and true, and a lie for the liar if 

need be — 
A board out of plumb for a place out of plumb, for the 

hypocrite flashes 
Of lightning or rods red hot for thrusting in tortuous 

places. 
Well, this was your way, you lived out the genius God 

gave you. 
And they hated you for it, hunted you all over Europe — 
Why should they not hate you.f" Why should you not 

follow your light ? 
But wherever they drove you, you climbed to a place 

more satiric. 
Did France bar her door? Geneva remained — good 

enough ! 
Les Delices close to some several cantons, you know. 
Would they lay hands upon you ? I fancy you laughing. 
You stand at your door and step into Vaud by one 

path; 
You stand at your door and step by another to France — 
[ 120] 



FRONT THE AGES WITH A SMILE 

Such safe jurisdictions, in truth, as the Illinois rowdies 
Step from county to county ahead of the frustrate 

policeman. 
And here you have printers to print what you write and 

a house 
For the acting of plays. La Pucelle, Orphelin. 
O busy Voltaire, never resting. . . . 

So England conservative, England of Southey and 

Burke, 
The fox-hunting squires, the England of Church and of 

State, 
The England half mule and half ox, writes you down, 

Voltaire: 
The quack grass of popery flourished in France, you 

essayed 
To plow up the tangle, and harrow the roots from the soil. 
It took a good ploughman to plow it, a ploughman of 

laughter, 
A ploughman who laughed when the plow struck the 

roots, and your breast 
Was thrown on the handles. 

And yet to this day, O Voltaire, 
They charge you with levity, scoffing, when all that you 

did 
Was to plough up the quack grass, and turn up the 

roots to the sun, 

[I2l] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

And let the sun kill them. For laughter is sun-light, 
And nothing of worth or of truth needs to fear it. 

But listen 
The strength of a nation is mind, I will grant you, and 

still 
But give it a tongue read and spoken more greatly than 

others. 
That nation can judge true or false and the judgment 

abides. 
The judgment in English condemns you, where is there 

a judgment 
To save you from this? Is it German, or Russian, or 
French ? 

Did you give up three years of your life 

To wipe out the sentence that burned the wracked body 
of Galas ? 

Did you help the oppressed Montbailli and Lally, O 
well, 

Six lines in an article written in English are plenty 

To weigh what you did, put it by with a generous 
gesture. 

Give the minds of the student your measure, impress 
them 

Forever that all of this sacrifice, service was noble. 

But done with mixed motives, the fruits of your meddle- 
some nature, 

[122] 



FRONT THE AGES WITH A SMILE 

Your hatred of churches and priests. Six lines are the 

record 
Of all of these years of hard plowing in quack-grass, 

while batting 
At poisonous flies and stepping on poisonous snakes. . . 

How well did you know that life to a genius, a god, 
Is naught but a farce! How well did you look with those 

eyes 
As black as a beetle's through all the ridiculous show: 
Ridiculous war, and ridiculous strife, and ridiculous 

pomp. 
Ridiculous dignity, riches, rituals, reasons and creeds. 
Ridiculous guesses at what the great Silence is saying. 
Ridiculous systems wound over the earth like a snake 
Devouring the children of Fear! Ridiculous customs, 
Ridiculous judgments and laws, philosophies, worships. 
You saw through and laughed at — you saw above all 
That a soul must make end with a groan, or a curse, or a 

laugh. 

So you smiled till the lines of your mouth 
A crescent became with dimples for horns, so expressing 
To centuries after who see you in marble: Behold me, 
I lived, I loved, I laughed, I toiled without ceasing 
Through eighty-four years for realities — O let them pass. 
Let life go by. Would you rise over death like a god? 
Front the ages with a smile! 



123 



POOR PIERROT 

Here far away from the city, here by the yellow dunes 
I will lie and soothe my heart where the sea croons. 
For what can I do with strife, or what can I do with 

hate? 
Or the city, or life, or fame, or love or fate ? 

Or the struggle since time began of the rich and poor? 
Or the law that drives the weak from the temple's door? 
Bury me under the sand so that my sorrow shall lie 
Hidden under the dunes from the world's eye. 

I have learned the secret of silence, silence long and 

deep: 
The dead knew all that I know, that is why they sleep. 
They could do nothing with fate, or love, or fame, or 

strife — 
When life fills full the soul then life kills life. 

I would glide under the earth as a shadow over a dune, 
Into the soul of silence, under the sun and moon. 
And forever as long as the world stands or the stars flee 
Be one with the sands of the shore and one with the sea. 

4c 4c He H: ^ 

[124I 



MIRAGE OF THE DESERT 

Well, there's the brazier set by the temple door: 
Blue flames run over the coals and flicker through. 
There are cool spaces of sky between white clouds — 
But what are flames and spaces but eyes of blue ? 



And there's the harp on which great fingers play 
Of gods who touch the wires, dreaming infinite things: 
And there's a soul that wanders out when called 
By a voice afar from the answering strings. 



And there's the wish of the deep fulfillment of tears, 
Till the vision, the mad music are wept away. 
One cannot have them and live, but if one die 
It might be better than living — who can say ? 



Why do we thirst for urns beyond urns who know 
How sweet they are, yet bitter, not enough? 
Eternity will quench your thirst, O soul — 
But never the Desert's spectre, cup of love! 

:): 4: 4: 4i 4e 

[ 125 ] 



DAHLIAS 

The mad wind is the warden. 
And the smiling dahlias nod 
To the dahlias across the garden, 
And the wastes of the golden rod. 

They never pray for pardon. 
Nor ask his way nor forego. 
Nor close their hearts nor harden 
Nor stay his hand, nor bestow 

Their hearts filched out of their bosoms. 
Nor plan for dahlias to be. 
For the wind blows over the garden 
And sets the dahlias free. 

They drift to the song of the warden. 
Heedless they give him heed. 
And he walks and blows through the garden 
Blossom and leaf and seed. 



[126] 



THE GRAND RIVER MARSHES 

Silvers and purples breathing in a sky 
Of fiery mid-days, like a watching tiger. 
Of the restrained but passionate July 
Upon the marshes of the river lie, 
Like the filmed pinions of the dragon fly. 



A whole horizon's waste of rushes bend 
Under the flapping of the breeze's wing. 
Departing and revisiting 
The haunts of the river twisting without end. 



The torsions of the river make long miles 

Of the waters of the river which remain 

Coiled by the village, tortuous aisles 

Of water between the rushes, which restrain 

The bewildered currents in returning files. 

Twisting between the greens like a blue racer, 

Too hurt to leap with body or uplift 

Its head while gliding, neither slow nor swift 

[127I 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Against the shaggy yellows of the dunes 

The iron bridge's reticules 

Are seen by fishermen from the Damascened 

lagoons. 
But from the bridge, watching the little steamer 
Paddling against the current up to Eastmanville, 
The river loosened from the abandoned spools 
Of earth and heaven wanders without will, 
Between the rushes, like a silken streamer. 
And two old men who turn the bridge 
For passing boats sit in the sun all day. 
Toothless and sleepy, ancient river dogs. 
And smoke and talk of a glory passed away. 
And of the ruthless sacrilege ' 
Which mowed away the pines, 
And cast them in the current here as logs, 
To be devoured by the mills to the last sliver, 
Making for a little hour heroes and heroines. 
Dancing and laughter at Grand Haven, 
When the great saws sent screeches up and whines. 
And cries for more and more 
Slaughter of forests up and down the river 
And along the lake's shore. 



But all is quiet on the river now 

As when the snow lay windless in the wood, 

And the last Indian stood 

[128] 



THE GRAND RIVER MARSHES 

And looked to find the broken bough 

That told the path under the snow. 

All is as silent as the spiral lights 

Of purple and of gold that from the marshes rise, 

Like the wings of swarming dragon flies, 

Far up toward Eastmanville, where the enclosing skies 

Quiver with heat; as silent as the flights 

Of the crow like smoke from shops against the glare 

Of dunes and purple air, 

There where Grand Haven against the sand hill lies. 



The forests and the mills are gone! 

All is as silent as the voice I heard 

On a summer dawn 

When we two fished among the river reeds. 

As silent as the pain 

In a heart that feeds 

A sorrow, but does not complain. 

As silent as above the bridge in this July, 

Noiseless, far up in this mirror-lighted sky 

Wheels aimlessly a hydroplane: 

A man-bestridden dragon fly! 



[129] 



DELILAH 

Because thou wast most delicate, 
A woman fair for men to see. 

The earth did compass thy estate, 
Thou didst hold life and death in fee, 
And every soul did bend the knee. 



Much pleasure also made thee grieve 
For that the goblet had been drained. 

The well spiced viand thou didst leave 
To frown on want whose throat was 

strained. 
And violence whose hands were stained. 



(Wherein the 
corrupt spirit 
of privilege is 
symbolized 
by Delilah 
and the Peo- 
ple by Sam- 
son.) 



The purple of thy royal cloak. 
Made the sea paler for its hue. 

Much people bent beneath the yoke 
To fetch thee jewels white and blue, 
And rings to pass thy gold hair through. 



Therefore, Delilah wast thou called, 

Because the choice wines nourished thee 

In Sorek, by the mountains walled 
Against the north wind's misery, 
Where flourished every pleasant tree. 

[130] 



DELILAH 



Thy lovers also were as great 

In numbers as the sea sands were; 

Thou didst requite their love with hate; 
And give them up to massacre, 
Who brought thee gifts of gold and myrrh. 



(Delilah hath 
a taste for 
ease and lux- 
ury and wan- 
toneth with 
divers lovers.) 



At Gaza and at Ashkelon, 

The obscene Dagon worshipping, 

Thy face was fair to look upon. 

Yet thy tongue, sweet to talk or sing. 
Was deadlier than the adder's sting. 



(Delilah con- 
ceiveth the 
design of en- 
snaring Sam- 
son.) 



Wherefore, thou saidst: "I will procure 
The strong man Samson for my spouse, 

His death will make my ease secure. 
The god has heard this people's vows 
To recompense their injured house." 



Thereafter, when the giant lay 
Supinely rolled against thy feet, 

Him thou didst craftily betray. 
With amorous vexings, low and sweet. 
To tell thee that which was not meet. 

And Samson spake to thee again; 

"With seven green withes I may be 
bound, 
So shall I be as other men." 

[131] 



(Delilah at- 
tempteth to 
discover the 
source of 
Samson's 
strength. 
Samson very 
neatly de- 
ceiveth her.) 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Whereat the lords the green withes found — 
The same about his limbs were bound. 

Then did the fish-god in thee cry: 

"The Philistines be upon thee now." 
But Samson broke the withes awry, 

As when a keen fire toucheth tow; 

So thou didst not the secret know. 

But thou, being full of guile, didst plead : 
"My lord, thou hast but mocked my love 

With lies who gave thy saying heed; 
Hast thou not vexed my heart enough, 
To ease me all the pain thereof?" 

Now, in the chamber with fresh hopes, 
The Hers in wait did list, and then 
He said: "Go to, and get new ropes. 
Wherewith thou shalt bind me again. 
So shall I be as other men." 

(Samson re- 
Then didst thou do as he had said, taineth his in- 
1-1 -1 tellect and 

Whereat the fish-god m thee cried, the lustihood 

"The Philistines be upon thy head," "nd'^again^^ 

He shook his shoulders deep and wide, misleadeth 

And cast the ropes like thread aside. craft of De- 



lilah.) 



Yet thou still fast to thy conceit, 
Didst chide him softly then and say: 

[ 132] 



DELILAH 

"Beforetime thou hast shown deceit, 
And mocked my quest with idle play, 
Thou canst not now my wish gainsay." 

Then with the secret in his thought. 
He said: "If thou wilt weave my hair, 

The web withal, the deed is wrought; 

Thou shalt have all my strength in snare, 
And I as other men shall fare." 

Seven locks of him thou tookest and wove 
The web withal and fastened it. 

And then the pin thy treason drove. 
With laughter making all things fit. 
As did beseem thy cunning wit. 



Then the god Dagon speaking by 
Thy delicate mouth made horrid din; 

"Lo the Philistine lords are nigh" — 
He woke ere thou couldst scarce begin. 
And took away the web and pin. 

Yet, saying not it doth suffice, 
Thou in the chamber's secrecy. 

Didst with thy artful words entice 
Samson to give his heart to thee. 
And tell thee where his strength might be. 

[133] 



(Delilah still 
pursueth her 
designs and 
Samson be- 
ginning to be 
somewhat 
wearied hint- 
eth very close 
to his secret.) 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Pleading, " How canst thou still aver, 

I love thee, being yet unkind ? 
How is it thou dost minister 

Unto my heart with treacherous mind, 

Thou art but cruelly inclined." 

From early morn to falling dusk, 
At night upon the curtained bed. 

Fragrant with spikenard and with musk, 
For weariness he laid his head, 
Whilst thou the insidious net didst spread. 

Nor wouldst not give him any rest, (Samson be- 

° ^ ■'I ing weakened 

But vexed with various words his soul, by lust and 

Till death far more than life was blest, Delilah's im- 

Shot through and through with heavy portunmes 

dole, eth herwhere- 

He gave his strength to thy control. strength 'con- 

sisteth.) 

Saying, "I am a Nazarite, 
To God alway, nor hath there yet 

Razor or shears done despite 
To these my locks of coarsen jet. 
Therefore my strength hath known no let." 

" But, and if these be shaven close. 

Whereas I once was strong as ten, 
I may not meet my meanest foes 

[134I 



DELILAH 



Among the hated Philistine, 
1 shall be weak like other men." 

He turned to sleep, the spell was done, 
Thou saidst "Come up this once, I trow 

The secret of his strength is known; 
Hereafter sweat shall bead his brow. 
Bring up the silver thou didst vow." 

They came, and sleeping on thy knees, 
The giant of his locks was shorn. 

And Dagon, being now at ease. 
Cried like the harbinger of morn. 
To see the giant's strength forlorn. 

For he wist not the Lord was gone: — 
"1 will go as I went erewhile," 

He said, "and shake my mighty brawn." 
Without the captains, file on file, 
Did execute Delilah's guile. 

At Gaza where the mockers pass, 
Midst curses and unholy sound. 

They fettered him with chains of brass. 
Put out his eyes, and being bound 
Within the prison house he ground. 

The heathen looking on did sing; 
"Behold our god into our hand, 

[135] 



(Samson hav- 
ing trusted 
Delilah turn- 
eth to sleep 
whereat her 
minions with 
force falleth 
upon him and 
depriveth him 
of his 
strength.) 



(Sansculot- 
tism, as it 
seemeth, ,is 
overthrown.) 



TOWARD THE GULF 



Hath brought him for our banqueting, 
Who slew us and destroyed our land, 
Against whom none of us could stand." 

Now, therefore, when the festival 
Waxed merrily, with one accord. 

The lords and captains loud did call, 
To bring him out whom they abhorred. 
To make them sport who sat at board. 

And Samson made them sport and stood 
Betwixt the pillars of the house. 

Above with scornful hardihood. 

Both men and women made carouse, 
And ridiculed his eyeless brows. 



(Samson be- 
ing no longer 
formidable 
and being de- 
prived of his 
eyes is re- 
duced to slav- 
ery and made 
the sport of 
the heathen.) 

(After a time 
Samson pray- 
eth for ven- 
geance even 
though him- 
self should 
perish 
thereby.) 



Then Samson prayed "Remember me 
O Lord, this once, if not again. 

O God, behold my misery, 

Now weaker than all other men, 
Who once was mightier than ten." 



"Grant vengeance for these sightless eyes, 
And for this unrequited toil. 

For fraud, injustice, perjuries. 

For lords whose greed devours the soil, 
And kings and rulers who despoil." 

[136] 



DELILAH 



"For all that maketh light of Thee, 
And sets at naught Thy holy word, 

For tongues that babble blasphemy. 
And impious hands that hold the sword- 
Grant vengeance, though I perish. Lord.' 

He grasped the pillars, having prayed, 
And bowed himself — the building fell, 

And on three thousand souls was laid. 
Gone soon to death with mighty yell. 
And Samson died, for it was well. 

The lords and captains greatly err, 
Thinking that Samson is no more, 

Blind, but with ever-growing hair. 
He grinds from Tyre to Singapore, 
While yet Delilah plays the whore. 

So it hath been, and yet will be. 
The captains, drunken at the feast 

To garnish their felicity. 

Will taunt him as a captive beast. 
Until their insolence hath ceased. 

Of ribaldry that smelleth sweet. 
To Dagon and to Ashtoreth; 

Of bloody stripes from head to feet. 
He will endure unto the death, 
Being blind, he also nothing saith. 

[137] 



(Wherein by 
a very nice 
conceit rev- 
olution is 
symbolized.) 



(Wherein it is 
shown that 
while the peo- 
ple like Sam- 
son have been 
blinded, and 
have not re- 
covered their 
sight still that 
their hair 
continueth to 
grow.) 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Then 'gainst the Doric capitals. 

Resting in prayer to God for power, 

He will shake down your marble walls, 
Abiding heaven's appointed hour. 
And those that fly shall hide and cower. 

But this Delilah shall survive, 

To do the sin already done, 
Her treacherous wiles and arts shall thrive, 

At Gaza and at Ashkelon, 

A woman fair to look upon. 



[138] 



THE WORLD-SAVER 

If the grim Fates, to stave ennui, 

Play whips for fun, or snares for game, 

The Har full of ease goes free, 
And Socrates must bear the shame. 

With the blunt sage he stands despised. 
The Pharisees salute him not; 

Laughter awaits the truth he prized. 
And Judas profits by his plot. 

A million angels kneel and pray. 

And sue for grace that he may win — 

Eternal Jove prepares the day. 
And sternly sets the fateful gin. 

Satan, who hates the light, is fain, 
To back his virtuous enterprise; 

The omnipotent powers alone refrain, 
Only the Lord of hosts denies. 

Whate'er of woven argument. 

Lacks warp to hold the woof in place. 
Smothers his honest discontent. 

But leaves to view his woeful face. 

[139] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Fling forth the flag, devour the land, 
Grasp destiny and use the law; 

But dodge the epigram's keen brand, 
And fall not by the ass's jaw. 

The idiot snicker strikes more down. 

Than fell at Troy or Waterloo; 
Still, still he meets it with a frown, 

And argues loudly for "the True." 

Injustice lengthens out her chain. 
Greed, yet ahungered, calls for more; 

But while the eons wax and wane. 
He storms the barricaded door. 

Wisdom and peace and fair intent, 
Are tedious as a tale twice told; 

One thing increases being spent — 
Perennial youth belongs to gold. 

At Weehawken the soul set free. 

Rules the high realm of Bunker Hill, 
Drink life from that philosophy, 
And flourish by the age's will. 

If he shall toil to clear the field. 

Fate's children seize the prosperous year; 
Boldly he fashions some new shield. 
And naked feels the victor's spear. 
[ 140] 



THE WORLD-SAVER 

He rolls the world up into day, 

He finds the grain, and gets the hull. 

He sees his own mind in the sway. 
And Progress tiptoes on his skull. 

Angels and fiends behold the wrong, 

And execrate his losing fight; 
While Jove amidst the choral song 

Smiles, and the heavens glow with light! 

— Trueblood 



Trueblood is bewitched to write a drama — 

Only one drama, then to die. Enough 

To win the heights but once! He writes me letters. 

These later days marked "Opened by the Censor," 

About his drama, asks me what I think 

About this point of view, and that approach, 

And whether to etch in his hero's soul 

By etching in his hero's enemies, 

Or luminate his hero by enshadowing 

His hero's enemies. How shall I tell him 

Which is the actual and the larger theme, 

His hero or his hero's enemies.? 

And through it all I see that Trueblood's mind 

Runs to the under-dog, the fallen Titan 

The god misunderstood, the lover of man 

Destroyed by heaven for his love of man. 

[141] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

In July, 1914, while in London 

He took me to his house to dine and showed me 

The verses as above. And while I read 

He left the room, returned, I heard him move 

The ash trays on the table where we sat 

And set some object on the table. 

Then 
As I looked up from reading I discovered 
A skull and bony hand upon the table. 
And Trueblood said: "Look at the loft brow! 
And what a hand was this! A right hand too. 
Those fingers in the flesh did miracles. 
And when I have my hero's skull before me, 
His hand that moulded peoples, I should write 
The drama that possesses all my thought. 
You'd think the spirit of the man would come 
And show me how to find the key that fits 
The story of his life, reveal its secret. 
I know the secrets, but I want the secret. 
You'd think his spirit out of gratitude 
Would start me off. It's something, I insist, 
To find a haven with a dramatist 
After your bones have crossed the sea, and after 
Passing from hand to hand they reach seclusion, 
And reverent housing. 

Dying in New York 
He lay for ten years in a lonely grave 

[ 142] 



THE WORLD-SAVER 

Somewhere along the Hudson, I believe. 

No grave yard in the city would receive him. 

Neither a banker nor a friend of banks, 

Nor falling in a duel to awake 

Indignant sorrow, space in Trinity 

Was not so much as offered. He was poor, 

And never had a tomb like Washington. 

Of course he wasn't Washington — but still, 

Study that skull a little! In ten years 

A mad admirer living here in England 

Went to America and dug him up, 

And brought his bones to Liverpool. Just then 

Our country was in turmoil over France — 

(The details are so rich I lose my head. 

And can't construct my acts.) — hell's flaming here, 

And we are fighting back the roaring fire 

That France had lighted. England would abort 

The era she embraced. Here is a point 

That vexes me in laying out the scenes, 

And persons of the play. For parliament 

Went into fury that these bones were here 

On British soil. The city raged. They took 

The poor town-crier, gave him nine months' prison 

For crying on the streets the bones' arrival. 

I'd like to put that crier in my play. 

The scene of his arrest would thrill, in case 

I put it on a background understood. 

And showing why the fellow was arrested, 

[ 143 ] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

And what a high offence to heaven it was. 

Then here's another thing: The monument 

This zealous friend had planned was never raised. 

The city wouldn't have it — you can guess 

The brain that filled this skull and moved this hand 

Had given England trouble. Yes, believe me! 

He roused rebellion and he scattered pamphlets. 

He had the English gift of writing pamphlets. 

He stirred up peoples with his English gift 

Against the mother country. How to show this 

In action, not in talk, is difficult. 

Well, then here is our friend who has these bones 
And cannot honor them in burial. 
And so he keeps them, then becomes a bankrupt. 
And look! the bones pass to our friend's receiver. 
Are they an asset ? Our Lord Chancellor 
Does not regard them so. I'd like to work 
Some humor in my drama at this point. 
And satirize his lordship just a little. 
Though you can scarcely call a skull an asset 
If it be of a man who helped to cost you 
The loss of half the world. So the receiver 
Cast out the bones and for a time a laborer 
Took care of them. He sold them to a man 
Who dealt in furniture. The empty coffin 
About this time turned up in Guilford — then 
It's 1854, the man is dead 

[144] 



THE WORLD-SAVER 

Near forty years, when just the skull and hand 

Are owned by Rev. Ainslie, who evades 

All questions touching on that ownership, 

And where the ribs, spine, arms and thigh bones are — 

The rest in short. 

And as for me — no matter 
Who sold them, gave them to me, loaned them to me. 
Behold the good right hand, behold the skull 
Of Thomas Paine, theo-philanthropist. 
Of Quaker parents, born in England ! Look, 
That is the hand that wrote the Crisis, wrote 
The Age of Reason, Common Sense, and rallied 
Americans against the mother country. 
With just that English gift of pamphleteering. 
You see I'd have to bring George Washington, 
And James Monroe and Thomas Jefferson 
Upon the stage, and put into their mouths 
The eulogies they spoke on Thomas Paine, 
To get before the audience that they thought 
He did as much as any man to win 
Your independence; that your Declaration 
Was founded on his writings, even inspired 
A clause against your negro slavery — how — 
Look at this hand ! — he was the first to write 
United States of America — there's the hand 
That was the first to write those words. Good Lord 
This drama would out-last a Chinese drama 

[145] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

If I put all the story in. But tell me 
What to omit, and what to stress ? 

And still 
I'd have the greatest drama in the world 
If I could prove he was dishonored, hunted, 
Neglected, libeled, buried like a beast. 
His bones dug up, thrown in and out of Chancery. 
And show these horrors overtook Tom Paine 
Because he was too great, and by this showing 
Instruct the world to honor its torch bearers 
For time to come. No? Well, that can't be done — 
I know that; but it puzzles me to think 
That Hamilton — ^we'U say, is so revered, 
So lauded, toasted, all his papers studied 
On tariffs and on banks, evoking ahs! 
Great genius! and so forth — and there's the Crisis 
And Common Sense which only little Shelleys 
Haunting the dusty book shops read at all. 
It wasn't that he liked his rum and drank 
Too much at times, or chased a pretty skirt — 
For Hamilton did that. Paine never mixed 
In money matters to another's wrong 
For his sake or a system's. Yes, I know 
The world cares more for chastity and temperance 
Than for a faultless life in money matters. 
No use to dramatize that vital contrast. 
The world to-day is what it always was. 

[146] 



THE WORLD-SAVER 

But you don't call this Hamilton an artist 
And Paine a mere logician and a wrangler? 
Your artist soul gets limed in this mad world 
As much as any. There is Leonardo — 
The point's not here. 

I think it's more Hke this: 
Some men are Titans and some men are gods, 
And some are gods who fall while climbing back 
Up to Olympus whence they came. And some 
While fighting for the race fall into holes 
Where to return and rescue them is death. 
Why look you here! You'd think America 
Had gone to war to cheat the guillotine 
Of Thomas Paine, in fiery gratitude. 
He's there in France's national assembly, 
And votes to save King Louis with this phrase: 
Don't kill the man but kill the kingly office. 
They think him faithless to the revolution 
For words like these — and clap! the prison door 
Shuts on our Thomas. So he writes a letter 
To president — of what! — to Washington 
President of the United States of America, 
A title which Paine coined in seventy-seven 
Now lettered on a monstrous seal of state! 
And Washington is silent, never answers. 
And leaves our Thomas shivering in a cell. 
Who hears the guillotine go slash and click! 

I 147] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Perhaps this Is the nucleus of my drama. 
Or else to show that Washington was wise 
Respecting England's hatred of our Thomas, 
And wise to lift no finger to save Thomas, 
Incurring England's wrath, who hated Thomas 
For pamphlets like the "Crisis" "Common Sense." 
That may be just the story for my drama. 
Old Homer satirized the human race 
For warring for the rescue of a Cyprian. 
But there's not stuff for satire in a war 
Ensuing on the insult for the rescue 
Of nothing but a fellow who wrote pamphlets, 
And won a continent for the rescuer. 
That's tragedy, the more so if the fellow 
Likes rum and writes that Jesus was a man. 
This crushing of poor Thomas in the hate 
Of England and her power, America's 
Great fear and lowered strength might make a drama 
As showing how the more you do in life 
The greater shall you suffer. This is true. 
If what you battered down gets hold of you. 
This drama almost drives me mad at times. 
I have his story at my fingers' ends. 
But it won't take a shape. It flies my hands. 
I think I'll have to give it up. What's that? 
Well, if an audience of to-day would turn 
From seeing Thomas Paine upon the stage 
What is the use to write it, if they'd turn 
[148] 



THE WORLD-SAVER 

No matter how you wrote it ? I believe 

They wouldn't like it in America, 

Nor England either, maybe — you are right! 

A drama with no audience is a failure. 

But here's this skull. What shall I do with it.? 

If I should have it cased in solid silver 

There is no shrine to take it — no Cologne 

For skulls like this. 

Well, I must die sometime, 
And who will get it then ? Look at this skull ! 
This bony hand! Then look at me, my friend: 
A man who has a theme the world despises ! 



149 



RECESSIONAL 

In Time of War 

medical unit — 

Even as I see, and share with you in seeing, 

The altar flame of your love's sacrifice; 

And even as I bear before the hour the vision, 

Your little hands in hospital and prison 

Laid upon broken bodies, dying eyes, 

So do I suffer for splendor of your being 

Which leads you from me, and in separation 

Lays on my breast the pain of memory. 

Over your hands I bend 

In silent adoration. 

Dumb for a fear of sorrow without end. 

Asking for consolation 

Out of the sacrament of our separation. 

And for some faithful word acceptable and true, 

That I may know and keep the mystery: 

That in this separation I go forth with you 

And you to the world's end remain with me. 



150] 



RECESSIONAL 

How may I justify the hope that rises 

That I am giving you to a world of pain, 

And am a part of your love's sacrifices? 

Is it so little if I see you not again ? 

You will croon soldier lads to sleep, 

Even to the last sleep of all. 

But in this absence, as your love will keep 

Your breast for me for comfort, if I fall, 

So I, though far away, shall kneel by you 

If the last hour approaches, to bedew 

Your lips that from their infant wondering 

Lisped of a heaven lost. 

I shall kiss down your eyes, and count the cost 

As mine, who gave you, by the tragic giving. 

Go forth with spirit to death, and to the living 

Bearing a solace in death. 

God has breathed on you His transfiguring breath,- 

You are transfigured 

Before me, and I bow my head. 

And leave you in the light that lights your way. 

And shadows me. Even now the hour is sped, 

And the hour we must obey — 

Look you, I will go pray! 



[iSi] 



THE AWAKENING 

When you lie sleeping; golden hair 
Tossed on your pillow, sea shell pink 
Ears that nestle, I forbear 
A moment while I look and think 
How you are mine, and if I dare 
To bend and kiss you lying there. 



A Raphael in the flesh! Resist 
I cannot, though to break your sleep 
Is thoughtless of me — you are kissed 
And roused from slumber dreamless, deep- 
You rub away the slumber's mist, 
You scold and almost weep. 



It is too bad to wake you so. 
Just for a kiss. But when awake 
You sing and dance, nor seem to know 
You slept a sleep too deep to break 
From which I roused you long ago 
For nothing but my passion's sake — 
What though your heart should ache! 

[152] 



IN THE GARDEN AT THE DAWN HOUR 

I arise in the silence of the dawn hour, 

And softly steal out to the garden 

Under the Favrile goblet of the dawning. 

And a wind moves out of the south-land. 

Like a film of silver, 

And thrills with a far borne message 

The flowers of the garden. 

Poppies untie their scarlet hoods and wave them 

To the south wind as he passes. 

But the zinnias and calendulas. 

In a mood of calm reserve, nod faintly 

As the south wind whispers the secret 

Of the dawn hour! 



I stand in the silence of the dawn hour 

In the garden. 

As the star of morning fades. 

Flying from scythes of air 

The hare-bells, purples and golden glow 

On the sand-hill back of the orchard 

Race before the feet of the wind. 

But clusters of oak-leaves over the yellow sand rim 

Begin to flutter and glisten. 

I 153 ] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

And in a moment, in a twinkled passion, 

The blazing rapiers of the sun are flashed. 

As he fences the lilac lights of the sky. 

And drives them up where the ice of the melting moon 

Is drowned in the waste of morning! 



In the silence of the garden, 

At the dawn hour 

I turn and see you — 

You who knew and followed, 

You who knew the dawn hour, 

And its sky like a Favrile goblet. 

You who knew the south-wind 

Bearing the secret of the morning 

To waking gardens, fields and forests. 

You in a gown of green, footed Iris, 

With eyes of dryad gray. 

And the blown glory of unawakened tresses — 

A phantom sprung out of the garden's enchantment, 

In the silence of the dawn hour! 



And here I behold you 

Amid a trance of color, silent music, 

The embodied spirit of the morning: 

Wind from the south-land, flashing beams of the sun 

Caught in the twinkling oak leaves: 

[154] 



IN THE GARDEN AT THE DAWN HOUR 

Poppies who wave their untied hoods to the south wind; 
And the imperious bows of zinnias and calendulas; 
The star of morning drowned, and hghts of lilac 
Turned white for the woe of the moon; 
And the silence of the dawn hour! 



And there to take you in my arms and feel you 

In the glory of the dawn hour. 

Along the sinuous rhythm of flesh and flesh ! 

To know your spirit by that oneness 

Of living and of love, in the twinkled passion 

Of life re-lit and visioned. 

In dryad eyes beholding 

The dancing, leaping, touching hands and racing 

Rapturous moment of the arisen sun; 

And the first drop of day out of this cup of Favrile. 

There to behold you. 

Our spirits lost together 

In the silence of the dawn hour! 



155 1 



FRANCE 

France fallen ! France arisen ! France of the brave! 
France of lost hopes ! France of Promethean zeal ! 
Napoleon's France, that bruised the despot's heel 
Of Europe, while the feudal world did rave. 
Thou France that didst burst through the rock-bound 

grave 
Which Germany and England joined to seal. 
And undismayed didst seek the human weal, 
Through which thou couldst thyself and others save — 
The wreath of amaranth and eternal praise! 
When every hand was 'gainst thee, so was ours. 
Freedom remembers, and I can forget: — 
Great are we by the faith our past betrays. 
And noble now the great Republic flowers 
Incarnate with the soul of Lafayette. 



[156] 



BERTRAND AND GOURGAUD TALK OVER 
OLD TIMES 

Gourgaud, these tears are tears — but look, this laugh, 
How hearty and serene — you see a laugh 
Which settles to a smile of lips and eyes 
Makes tears just drops of water on the leaves 
When rain falls from a sun-lit sky, my friend. 
Drink to me, clasp my hand, embrace me, call me 
Beloved Bertrand. Ha! I sigh for joy. 
Look at our Paris, happy, whole, renewed. 
Refreshed by youth, new dressed in human leaves, 
Shaking its fresh blown blossoms to the world. 
And here we sit grown old, of memories 
Top-full — your hand — my breast is all afire 
With happiness that warms, makes young again. 

You see it is not what we saw to-day 
That makes me spirit, rids me of the flesh: — 
But all that I remember, we remember 
Of what the world was, what it is to-day. 
Beholding how it grows. Gourgaud, I see 
Not in the rise of this man or of that. 
Nor in a battle's issue, in the blow 
That lifts or fells a nation — no, my friend, 
God is not there, but in the living stream 

[IS7] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Which sweeps in spite of eddies, undertows, 

Cross-currents, what you will, to that result 

Where stillness shows the star that fits the star 

Of truth in spirits treasured, imaged, kept 

Through sorrow, blood and death, — God moves in that 

And there I find Him. 

But these tears — for whom 
Or what are tears ? The Old Guard — oh, my friend 
That melancholy remnant! And the horse. 
White, to be sure, but not Marengo, wearing 
The saddle and the bridle which he used. 
My tears take quality for these pitiful things, 
But other quality for the purple robe 
Over the cojffin lettered in pure gold 
*'Napoleon" — ah, the emperor at last 
Come back to Paris! And his spirit looks 
Over the land he loved, with what result? 
Does just the army that acclaimed him rise 
Which rose to hail him back from Elba? — no 
All France acclaims him! Princes of the church, 
And notables uncover! At the door 
A herald cries "The Emperor!" Those assembled 
Rise and do reverence to him. Look at Soult, 
He hands the king the sword of Austerlitz, 
The king turns to me, hands the sword to me, 
I place it on the coffin — dear Gourgaud, 
Embrace me, clasp my hand! I weep and laugh 

[158I 



BERTRAND AND GOURGAUD 

For thinking that the Emperor is home; 

For thinking I have laid upon his bed 

The sword that makes inviolable his bed, 

Since History stepped to where I stood and stands 

To say forever: Here he rests, be still, 

Bow down, pass by in reverence — the Ages 

Like giant caryatides that look 

With sleepless eyes upon the world and hold 

With never tiring hands the Vault of Time, 

Command your reverence. 

What have we seen? 
Why this, that every man, himself achieving 
Exhausts the life that drives him to the work 
Of self-expression, of the vision in him, 
His reason for existence, as he sees it. 
He may or may not mould the epic stuff 
As he would wish, as lookers on have hope 
His hands shall mould it, and by failing take — 
For slip of hand, tough clay or blinking eye, 
A cinder for that moment in the eye — 
A world of blame; for hooting or dispraise 
Have all his work misvalued for the time, 
And pump his heart up harder to subdue 
Envy, or fear or greed, in any case 
He grows and leaves and blossoms, so consumes 
His soul's endowment in the vision of life. 
And thus of him. Why, there at Fontainebleau 

[159] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

He Is a man full spent, he idles, sleeps. 

Hears with dull ears: Down with the Corsican, 

Up with the Bourbon lilies! Royalists, 

Conspirators, and clericals may shout 

Their hatred of him, but he sits for hours 

Kicking the gravel with his little heel, 

Which lately trampled sceptres in the mud. 

Well, what was he at Waterloo? — you know: 

That piercing spirit which at mid-day power 

Knew all the maps of Europe — could unfold 

A map and say here is the place, the way, 

The road, the valley, hill, destroy them here. 

Why, all his memory of maps was blurred 

The night before he failed at Waterloo. 

The Emperor was sick, my friend, we know it. 

He could not ride a horse at Waterloo. 

His soul was spent, that's all. But who was rested.? 

The dirty Bourbons skulking back to Paris, 

Now that our giant democrat was sick. 

Oh, yes, the dirty Bourbons skulked to Paris 

Helped by the Duke and Bliicher, damn their souls. 

What is a man to do whose work is done 
And does not feel so well, has cancer, say? 
You know he could have reached America 
After his fall at Waterloo. Good God ! 
If only he had done it! For they say 
New Orleans is a city good to live in. 
[i6o] 



BERTRAND AND GOURGAUD 

And he had ceded to America 
Louisiana, which in time would curb 
The English Hon. But he didn't go there. 
His mind was weakened else he had foreseen 
The lion he had tangled, wounded, scourged 
Would claw him if it got him, play with him 
Before it killed him. Who was England then i* — 

An old, mad, blind, despised and dying king 
Who lost a continent for the lust that slew 
The Emperor — the world will say at last 
It was no other. Who was England then? 
A regent bad as husband, father, son. 
Monarch and friend. But who was England then? 
Great Castlereagh who cut his throat, but who 
Had cut his country's long before. The duke — 
Since Waterloo, and since the Emperor slept — 
The English stoned the duke, he bars his windows 
With iron 'gainst the mobs who break to fury. 
To see the Duke waylay democracy. 
The world's great conqueror's conqueror! — Eh bien! 
Grips England after Waterloo, but when 
The people see the duke for what he is: 
A blocker of reform, a Tory sentry, 
A spotless knight of ancient privilege. 
They up and stone him, by the very deed 
Stone him for wronging the democracy 
The Emperor erected with the sword. 
[i6i] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

The world's great conqueror's conqueror — Oh, I sicken! 
Odes are like head-stones, standing while the graves 
Are guarded and kept up, but falling down 
To ruin and erasure when the graves 
Are left to sink. Hey ! there you English poets, 
Picking from daily libels, slanders, junk 
Of metal for your tablets 'gainst the Emperor, 
Melt up true metal at your peril, poets, 
Sweet moralists, monopolists of God. 
But who was England ? Byron driven out. 
And courts of chancery vile but sacrosanct, 
Despoiling Shelley of his children; Southey, 
The turn-coat panegyrist of King George, 
An old, mad, blind, despised, dead king at last; 
A realm of rotten boroughs massed to stop 
The progress of democracy and chanting 
To God Almighty hymns for Waterloo, 
Which did not stop democracy, as they hoped. 
For England of to-day is freer — why? 
The revolution and the Emperor! 
They quench the revolution, send Napoleon 
To St. Helena — but the ashes soar 
Grown finer, grown invisible at last. 
And all the time a wind is blowing ashes. 
And sifting them upon the spotless linen 
Of kings and dukes in England till at last 
They find themselves mistaken for the people. 
Drink to me, clasp my hand, embrace me — tiens! 
[ 162 ] 



BERTRAND AND GOURGAUD 

The Emperor is home again in France, 

And Europe for democracy is thriUing. 

Now don't you see the Emperor was sick. 

The shadows falHng slant across his mind 

To write to such an England: "My career 

Is ended and I come to sit me down 

Before the fireside of the British people. 

And claim protection from your Royal Highness " — 

This to the regent — " as a generous foe 

Most constant and most powerful" — I weep. 

They tricked him Gourgaud. Once upon the ship. 

He thinks he's bound for England, and why not? 

They dine him, treat him like an Emperor. 

And then they tack and sail to St. Helena, 

Give him a cow shed for a residence. 

Depute that thing Sir Hudson Lowe to watch him, 

Spy on his torture, intercept his letters, 

Step on his broken wings, and mock the film 

Descending on those eyes of failing fire. . . . 

One day the packet brought to him a book 
Inscribed by Hobhouse, "To the Emperor." 
Lowe kept the book but when the Emperor learned 
Lowe kept the book, because 'twas so inscribed. 
The Emperor said — I stood near by — "Who gave you 
The right to slur my title ? In a few years 
Yourself, Lord Castlereagh, the duke himself 
Will be beneath oblivion's dust, remembered 

[163] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

For your indignities to me, that's all. 
England expended millions on her libels 
To poison Europe's mind and make my purpose 
Obscure or bloody — how have they availed ? 
You have me here upon this scarp of rock, 
But truth will pierce the clouds, 'tis like the sun 
And like the sun it cannot be destroyed. 
Your Wellingtons and Metternichs may dam 
The liberal stream, but only to make stronger 
The torrent when it breaks." Is it not true? 
That's why I weep and laugh to-day, my friend 
And trust God as I have not trusted yet. 
And then the Emperor said: "What have I claimed.? 
A portion of the royal blood of Europe? 
A crown for blood's sake? No, my royal blood 
Is dated from the field of Montenotte, 
And from my mother there in Corsica, 
And from the revolution. I'm a man 
Who made himself because the people made me. 
You understand as little as she did 
When I had brought her back from Austria, 
And riding through the streets of Paris pointed 
Up to the window of the little room 
Where I had lodged when I came from Brienne, 
A poor boy with my way to make — as poor 
As Andrew Jackson in America, 
No more a despot than he is a despot. 
Your England understands. I was a menace 
[164] 



BERTRAND AND GOURGAUD 

Not as a despot, but as head and front, 

Eyes, brain and leader of democracy. 

Which like the messenger of God was marking 

The doors of kings for slaughter. England lies. 

Your England understands I had to hold 

By rule compact a people drunk with rapture, 

And torn by counter forces, had to fight 

The royalists of Europe who beheld 

Their peoples feverish from the great infection, 

Who hoped to stamp the plague in France and stop 

Its spread to them. Your England understands. 

Save Castlereagh and Wellington and Southey. 

But look you, sir, my roads, canals and harbors. 

My schools, finance, my code, the manufactures 

Arts, sciences I builded, democratic 

Triumphs which I won will live for ages — 

These are my witnesses, will testify 

Forever what I was and meant to do. 

The ideas which I brought to power will stifle 

All royalty, all feudalism — look 

They live in England, they illuminate 

America, they will be faith, religion 

For every people — ^these I kindled, carried 

Their flaming torch through Europe as the chief 

Torch bearer, soldier, representative." 

You were not there, Gourgaud — but wait a minute, 
I choke with tears and laughter. Listen now: 

I 165] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Sir Hudson Lowe looked at the Emperor 
Contemptuous but not the less bewitched. 
And when the Emperor finished, out he drawled 
"You make me smile." Why that is memorable: 
It should be carved upon Sir Hudson's stone. 
He was a prophet, founder of the sect 
Of smilers and of laughers through the world, 
Smilers and laughers that the Emperor 
Told every whit the truth. Look you at Europe, 
What were it in this day except for France, 
Napoleon's France, the revolution's France? 
What will it be as time goes on but peoples 
Made free through France? 

I take the good and ill. 
Think over how he lounged, lay late in bed. 
Spent long hours in the bath, counted the hours. 
Pale, broken, wracked with pain, insulted, watched, 
His child torn from him, Josephine and wife 
Silent or separate, waiting long for death. 
Looking with filmed eyes upon his wings 
Broken, upon the rocks stretched out to gain 
A little sun, and crying to the sea 
With broken voice — I weep when I remember 
Such things which you and I from day to day 
Beheld, nor could not mitigate. But then 
There is that night of thunder, and the dawning 
And all that day of storm and toward the evening 
[i66] 



BERTRAND AND GOURGAUD 

He says: "Deploy the eagles!" "Onward!" Well, 
I leave the room and say to Steward there: 
"The Emperor is dead." That very moment 
A crash of thunder deafened us. You see 
A great age boomed in thunder its renewal — 
Drink to me, clasp my hand, embrace me, friend. 



[167] 



DRAW THE SWORD, O REPUBLIC! 

By the blue sky of a clear vision, 

And by the white light of a great illumination. 

And by the blood-red of brotherhood, 

Draw the sword, O Republic! 

Draw the sword ! 

For the light which is England, 
And the resurrection which is Russia, 
And the sorrow which is France, 
And for peoples everywhere 
Crying in bondage, 
And in poverty! 

You have been a leaven in the earth, O Republic! 
And a watch-fire on the hill-top scattering sparks; 
And an eagle clanging his wings on a cloud-wrapped 

promontory : 
Now the leaven must be stirred. 
And the brands themselves carried and touched 
To the jungles and the black-forests. 
Now the eaglets are grown, they are calling. 
They are crying to each other from the peaks — 
They are flapping their passionate wings in the sunlight, 
Eager for battle! 

[168I 



DRAW THE SWORD, O REPUBLIC! 

As a strong man nurses his youth 

To the day of trial; 

But as a strong man nurses it no more 

On the day of trial, 

But exults and cries: For Victory, Strength! 

And for the glory of my City, O treasured youth! 

You shall neither save your youth, 

Nor hoard your strength 

Beyond this hour, Republic! 

For you have sworn 

By the passion of the Gaul, 

And the strength of the Teuton, 

And the will of the Saxon, 

And the hunger of the Poor, 

That the white man shall lie down by the black 

man. 
And by the yellow man. 
And all men shall be one spirit, as they are one 

flesh. 
Through Wisdom, Liberty and Democracy. 
And forasmuch as the earth cannot hold 
Aught beside them, 

You have dedicated the earth, Republic, 
To Wisdom, Liberty and Democracy! 

By the Power that drives the soul to Freedom, 
And by the Power that makes us love our fellows, 

[169] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

And by the Power that comforts us in death. 
Dying for great races to come — 
Draw the sword, O Republic! 
Draw the Sword! 



[170] 



DEAR OLD DICK 

{Dedicated to Vachel Lindsay and in Memory of Richard E. Burke) 

Said dear old Dick 

To the colored waiter: 

"Here, George! be quick 

Roast beef and a potato. 

I'm due at the courthouse at half-past one, 

You black old scoundrel, get a move on you! 

I want a pot of coffee and a graham bun. 

This vinegar decanter'll make a groove on you, 

You black-faced mandril, you grinning baboon — " 

"Yas sah! Yas sah," answered the coon. 

"Now don't you talk back," said dear old Dick, 

"Go and get my dinner or I'll show you a trick 

With a plate, a tumbler or a silver castor, 

Fuliginous monkey, sired by old Nick." 

And the nigger all the time was moving round the table, 

Rattling the silver things faster and faster — 

"Yes sah! Yas sah, soon as I'se able 

I'll bring yo' dinnah as shore as yo's bawn." 

"Quit talking about it; hurry and be gone. 

You low-down nigger," said dear old Dick. 

Then I said to my friend: "Suppose he'd up and stick 
A knife in your side for raggin' him so hard; 

[171] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Or how would you relish some spit in your broth ? 

Or a little Paris green in your cheese for chard ? 

Or something in your coffee to make your stomach 

froth? 
Or a bit of asafoetida hidden in your pie? 
That's a gentlemanly nigger or he'd black your eye." 

Then dear old Dick made this long reply: 

"You know, I love a nigger, 

And I love this nigger. 

I met him first on the train from California 

Out of Kansas City; in the morning early 

I walked through the diner, feeling upset 

For a cup of coffee, looking rather surly. 

And there sat this nigger by a table all dressed, 

Waiting for the time to serve the omelet. 

Buttered toast and coffee to the passengers. 

And this is what he said in a fine southern way: 

'Good mawnin,' sah, I hopes yo' had yo' rest, 

I'm glad to see you on dis sunny day.' 

Now think! here's a human who has no other cares 

Except to please the white man, serve him when he's 

starving, 
And who has as much fun when he sees you carving 
The sirloin as you do, does this black man. 
Just think for a minute, how the negroes excel, 
Can you beat them with a banjo or a broiling pan? 
There's music in their soul as original 
[172J 



DEAR OLD DICK 

As any breed of people in the whole wide earth; 
They're elemental hope, heartiness, mirth. 
There are only two things real American: 
One is Christian Science, the other is the nigger. 
Think it over for yourself and see if you can figure 
Anything beside that is not imitation 
Of something in Europe in this hybrid nation. 
Return to this globe five hundred years hence — 
You'll see how the fundamental color of the coon 
In art, in music, has altered our tune; 
We are destined to bow to their influence; 
There's a whole cult of music in Dixie alone. 
And that is America put into tone." 

And dear old Dick gathered speed and said: 

"Sometimes through Dvorak a vision arises 

To the words of Merneptah whose hands were red: 

'I shall live, I shall live, I shall grow, I shall grow, 

I shall wake up in peace, I shall thrill with the glow 

Of the life of Temu, the god who prizes 

Favorite souls and the souls of kings.' 

Now these are the words, and here is the dream. 

No wonder you think I am seeing things: 

The desert of Egypt shimmers in the gleam 

Of the noonday sun on my dazzled sight. 

And a giant negro as black as night 

Is walking by a camel in a caravan. 

His great back glistens with the streaming sweat. 

I 173 I 



TOWARD THE GULF 

The camel is ridden by a light-faced man, 

A Greek perhaps, or Arabian. 

And this giant negro is rhythmically swaying • 

With the rhythm of the camel's neck up and down. 

He seems to be singing, rollicking, playing; 

His ivory teeth are glistening, the Greek is listening 

To the negro keeping time like a tabouret. 

And what cares he for Memphis town, 

Merneptah the bloody, or Books of the Dead, 

Pyramids, philosophies of madness or dread? 

A tune is in his heart, a reality: 

The camel, the desert are things that be. 

He's a negro slave, but his heart is free." 

Just then the colored waiter brought in the dinner. 

"Get a hustle on you, you miserable sinner," 

Said dear old Dick to the colored waiter. 

"Heah's a nice piece of beef and a great big potato. 

I hopes yo'll enjoy 'em sah, yas I do; 

Heah's black mustahd greens, 'specially for yo', 

And a fine piece of jowl that I swiped and took 

From a dish set by, by the git-away cook. 

I hope yo'll enjoy 'em, sah, yas I do." 

"Well, George," Dick said, "if Gabriel blew 

His horn this minute, you'd up and ascend 

To wait on St. Peter world without end." 



[174] 



THE ROOM OF MIRRORS 

I saw a room where many feet were dancing. 

The ceiling and the wall were mirrors glancing 

Both flames of candles and the heaven's light, 

Though windows there were none for air or flight. 

The room was in a form polygonal 

Reached by a little door and narrow hall. 

One could behold them enter for the dance, 

And waken as it were out of a trance, 

And either singly or with some one whirl: 

The old, the young, full livers, boy and girl. 

And every panel of the room was just 

A mirrored door through which a hand was thrust 

Here, there, around the room, a soul to seize 

Whereat a scream would rise, but no surcease 

Of music or of dancing, save by him 

Drawn through the mirrored panel to the dim 

And unknown space behind the flashing mirrors. 

And by his partner struck through by the terrors 

Of sudden loss. 

And looking I could see 
That scarcely any dancer here could free 
His eyes from off the mirrors, but would gaze 
Upon himself or others, till a craze 

[175] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Shone in his eyes thus to anticipate 

The hand that took each dancer soon or late. 

Some analyzed themselves, some only glanced, 

Some stared and paled and then more madly 

danced. 
One dancer only never looked at all. 
He seemed soul captured by the carnival. 
There were so many dancers there he loved, 
He was so greatly by the music moved. 
He had no time to study his own face 
There in the mirrors as from place to place 
He quickly danced. 

Until I saw at last 
This dancer by the whirling dancers cast 
Face full against a mirrored panel where 
Before he could look at himself or stare 
He plunged through to the other side — and quick, 
As water closes when you lift the stick, 
The mirrored panel swung in place and left 
No trace of him, as 'twere a magic trick. 
But all his partners thus so soon bereft 
Went dancing to the music as before. 
But I saw faces in that mirrored door 
Anatomizing their forced smiles and watching 
Their faces over shoulders, even matching 
Their terror with each other's to repress 
A growing fear in seeing it was less 

[176] 



THE ROOM OF MIRRORS 

Than some one else's, or to ease despair 

By looking in a face who did not care, 

While watching for the hand that through some door 

Caught a poor dancer from the dancing floor 

With every time-beat of the orchestra. 

What is this room of mirrors ? Who can say ? 



177 



THE LETTER 

What does one gain by living? What by dying 

Is lost worth having? What the daily things 

Lived through together make them worth the while 

For their sakes or for life's ? Where's the denying 

Of souls through separation? There's your smile! 

And your hands' touch! And the long day that brings 

Half uttered nothings of delight! But then 

Now that I see you not, and shall again 

Touch you no more — memory can possess 

Your soul's essential self, and none the less 

You live with me. I therefore write to you 

This letter just as if you were away 

Upon a journey, or a holiday; 

And so I'll put down everything that's new 

In this secluded village, since you left. . . . 

Now let me think! Well, then, as I remember. 

After ten days the lilacs burst in bloom. 

We had spring all at once — the long December 

Gave way to sunshine. Then we swept your room. 

And laid your things away. And then one morning 

I saw the mother robin giving warning 

To little bills stuck just above the rim 

Of that nest which you watched while being built, 

Near where she sat, upon a leafless limb, 

[178] 



THE LETTER 

With folded wings against an April rain. 

On June the tenth Edward and Julia married, 

I did not go for fear of an old pain. 

I was out on the porch as they drove by, 

Coming from church. I think I never scanned 

A girl's face with such sunny smiles upon it 

Showing beneath the roses on her bonnet — 

I went into the house to have a cry. 

A few days later Kimbrough lost his wife. 

Between housework and hoeing in the garden 

I read Sir Thomas More and Goethe's life. 

My heart was numb and still I had to harden 

All memory or die. And just the same 

As when you sat beside the window, passed 

Larson, the cobbler, hollow-chested, lamed. 

He did not die till late November came. 

Things did not come as Doctor Jones forecast, 

'Twas June when Mary Morgan had her child. 

Her husband was in Monmouth at the time. 

She had no milk, the baby is not well. 

The Baptist Church has got a fine new bell. 

And after harvest Joseph CliflFord tiled 

His bottom land. Then Judy Heaton's crime 

Has shocked the village, for the monster killed 

Glendora Wilson's father at his door — 

A daughter's name was why the blood was spilled. 

1 could go on, but wherefore tell you more? 

The world of men has gone its olden way 

[ 179 ] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

With war in Europe and the same routine 

Of life among us that you knew when here. 

This gossip is not idle, since I say 

By means of it what I would tell you, dear: 

I have been near you, dear, for I have been 

Not with you through these things, but in despite 

Of living them without you, therefore near 

In spirit and in memory with you. 



Do you remember that delightful Inn 

At Chester and the Roman wall, and how 

We walked from Avon clear to Kenilworth ? 

And afterward when you and I came down 

To London, I forsook the murky town. 

And left you to quaint ways and crowded places, 

While I went on to Putney just to see 

Old Swinburne and to look into his face's 

Changeable lights and shadows and to seize on 

A finer thing than any verse he wrote? 

(Oh beautiful illusions of our youth !) 

He did not see me gladly. Talked of treason 

To England's greatness. What was Camden like? 

Did old Walt Whitman smoke or did he drink? 

And Longfellow was sweet, but couldn't think. 

His mood was crusty. Lowell made him laugh! 

Meantime Watts-Dunton came and broke in half 

My visit, so I left. 

[180I 



THE LETTER 

The thing was this: 
None of this talk was Swinburne any more 
Than some child of his loins would take his hair. 
Eyes, skin, from him in some pangenesis, — 
His flesh was nothing but a poor affair, 
A channel for the eternal stream — his flesh 
Gave nothing closer, mind you, than his book. 
But rather blurred it; even his eyes' look 
Confused "Madonna Mia" from its fresh 
And liquid meaning. So I knew at last 
His real immortal self is in his verse. 



Since you have gone I've thought of this so much. 

I cannot lose you in this universe — 

I first must lose myself. The essential touch 

Of soul possession lies not in the walk 

Of daily life on earth, nor in the talk 

Of daily things, nor in the sight of eyes 

Looking in other eyes, nor daily bread 

Broken together, nor the hour of love 

When flesh surrenders depths of things divine 

Beyond all vision, as they were the dream 

Of other planets, but without these even 

In death and separation, there is heaven: 

By just that unison and its memory 

Which brought our lips together. To be free 

From accidents of being, to be freeing 

[i8i] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

The soul from trammels on essential being, 
Is to possess the loved one. I have strayed 
Into the only heaven God has made: 
That's where we know each other as we are, 
In the bright ether of some quiet star, 
Communing as two memories with each other. 



[182] 



CANTICLE OF THE RACE 



SONG OF MEN 

How beautiful are the bodies of men — 

The agonists! 

Their hearts beat deep as a brazen gong 

For their strength's behests. 

Their arms are lithe as a seasoned thong 

In games or tests 

When they run or box or swim the long 

Sea-waves crests 

With their slender legs, and their hips so strong, 

And their rounded chests. 

I know a youth who raises his arms 

Over his head. 

He laughs and stretches and flouts alarms 

Of flood or fire. 

He springs renewed from a lusty bed 

To his youth's desire. 

He drowses, for April flames outspread 

In his soul's attire. 

The strength of men is for husbandry 
Of woman's flesh: 

I 183] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Worker, soldier, magistrate 

Of city or realm; 

Artist, builder, wrestling Fate 

Lest it overwhelm 

The brood or the race, or the cherished state. 

They sing at the helm 

When the waters roar and the waves are great, 

And the gale is fresh. 

There are two miracles, women and men — 

Yea, four there be: 

A woman's flesh, and the strength of a man, 

And God's decree. 

And a babe from the womb in a little span 

Ere the month be ten. 

Their rapturous arms entwine and cling 

In the depths of night; 

He hunts for her face for his wondering, 

And her eyes are bright. 

A woman's flesh is soil, but the spring 

Is man's delight. 

SONG OF WOMEN 

How beautiful is the flesh of women — 
Their throats, their breasts! 
My wonder is a flame which burns, 
A flame which rests; 

[184I 



CANTICLE OF THE RACE 

It is a flame which no wind turns, 
And a flame which quests. 

I know a woman who has red lips, 

Like coals which are fanned. 

Her throat is tied narcissus, it dips 

From her white-rose chin. 

Her throat curves like a cloud to the land 

Where her breasts begin. 

I close my eyes when I put my hand 

On her breast's white skin. 

The flesh of women is like the sky 

When bare is the moon: 

Rhythm of backs, hollow of necks, 

And sea-shell loins. 

I know a woman whose splendors vex 

Where the flesh joins — 

A slope of light and a circumflex 

Of clefts and coigns. 

She thrills like the air when silence wrecks 

An ended tune. 

These are the things not made by hands in the earth ; 

Water and fire. 

The air of heaven, and springs afresh, 

And love's desire. 

And a thing not made is a woman's flesh, 

[185] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Sorrow and mirth! 

She tightens the strings on the lyric lyre, 

And she drips the wine. 

Her breasts bud out as pink and nesh 

As buds on the vine: 

For fire and water and air are flesh, 

And love is the shrine. 



Song of the Human Spirit 

How beautiful is the human spirit 

In its vase of clay! 

It takes no thought of the chary dole 

Of the Hght of day. 

It labors and loves, as it were a soul 

Whom the gods repay 

With length of life, and a golden goal 

At the end of the way. 

There are souls 1 know who arch a dome, 

And tunnel a hill. 

They chisel in marble and fashion in chrome. 

And measure the sky. 

They find the good and destroy the ill, 

And they bend and ply 

The laws of nature out of a will 

While the fates deny. 

I 1861 



CANTICLE OF THE RACE 

I wonder and worship the human spirit 

When I behold 

Numbers and symbols, and how they reach 

Through steel and gold; 

A harp, a battle-ship, thought and speech, 

And an hour foretold. 

It ponders its nature to turn and teach, 

And itself to mould. 

The human spirit is God, no doubt. 

Is flesh made the word: 

Jesus, Beethoven and Raphael, 

And the souls who heard 

Beyond the rim of the world the swell 

Of an ocean stirred 

By a Power on the waters inscrutable. 

There are souls who gird 

Their loins in faith that the world is well, 

In a faith unblurred. 

How beautiful is the human spirit — 

The flesh made the word ! 



187] 



BLACK EAGLE RETURNS TO ST. JOE 

This way and that way measuring, 

Sighting from tree to tree, 

And from the bend of the river. 

This must be the place where Black Eagle 

Twelve hundred moons ago 

Stood with folded arms, 

While a Pottawatomie father 

Plunged a knife in his heart, 

For the murder of a son. 

Black Eagle stood with folded arms, 

Slim, erect, firm, unafraid. 

Looking into the distance, across the river. 

Then the knife flashed, 

Then the knife crashed through his ribs 

And into his heart. 

And like a wounded eagle's wings 

His arms fell, slowly unfolding. 

And he sank to death without a groan! 

And my name is Black Eagle too. 
And I am of the spirit. 
And perhaps of the blood 
Of that Black Eagle of old. 
I am naked and alone, 
[i88l 



BLACK EAGLE RETURNS TO ST. JOE 

But very happy; 

Being rich in spirit and in memories. 
I am very strong. 
I am very proud, 
Brave, revengeful, passionate. 
No longer deceived, keen of eye, 
Wise in the ways of the tribes : 
A knower of winds, mists, rains, snows, changes. 
A knower of balsams, simples, blossoms, grains. 
A knower of poisonous leaves, deadly fungus, ber- 
ries. 
A knower of harmless snakes. 
And the livid copperhead. 
Lastly a knower of the spirits. 
For there are many spirits : 
Spirits of hidden lakes. 
And of pine forests. 
Spirits of the dunes. 
And of forested valleys. 
Spirits of rivers, mountains, fields, 
And great distances. 
There are many spirits 
Under the Great Spirit. 
Him I know not. 
Him I only feel 
With closed eyes. 

Or when I look from my bed of moss by the river 
At a sky of stars, 

[189] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

When the leaves of the oak are asleep. 
I will fill this birch bark full of writing 
And hide it in the cleft of an oak, 
Here where Black Eagle fell. 
Decipher my story who can: 

When I was a boy of fourteen 

Tobacco Jim, who owned many dogs. 

Rose from the door of his tent 

And came to where we were running, 

Young Coyote, Rattler, Little Fox, 

And said to me in their hearing: 

"You are the fastest of all. 

Now run again, and let me see. 

And if you can run 

I will make you my runner, 

I will care for you. 

And you shall have pockets of gold." . . . 

And then we ran. 

And the others lagged behind me, 

Like smoke behind the wind. 

But the faces of Young Coyote, Rattler, Little 

Fox 
Grew dark. 

They nudged each other. 
They looked side-ways. 
Toeing the earth in shame. . . . 

[ 190] 



BLACK EAGLE RETURNS TO ST. JOE 

Then Tobacco Jim took me and trained me. 

And he went here and there 

To find a match. 

And to get wagers of ponies, nuggets of copper, 

And nuggets of gold. 

And at last the match was made. 

It was under a sky as blue as the cup of a harebell. 

It was by a red and yellow mountain, 

It was by a great river 

That we ran. 

Hundreds of Indians came to the race. 

They babbled, smoked and quarreled. 

And everyone carried a knife, 

And everyone carried a gun. 

And we runners — 

How young we were and unknowing 

What the race meant to them! 

For we saw nothing but the track. 

We saw nothing but our trainers 

And the starters. 

And I saw no one but Tobacco Jim. 

But the Indians and the squaws saw much else. 

They thought of the race in such different ways 

From the way we thought of it. 

For with me it was honor. 

It was triumph. 

It was fame. 

[191] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

It was the tender looks of Indian maidens 

Wherever I went. 

But now I know that to Tobacco Jim, 

And the old fathers and young bucks 

The race meant jugs of whiskey, 

And new guns. 

It meant a squaw, 

A pony. 

Or some rise in the Hfe of the tribe. 

So the shot of the starter rang at last, 

And we were off. 

I wore a band of yellow around my brow 

With an eagle's feather in it. 

And a red strap for my loins. 

And as I ran the feather fluttered and sang: 

"You are the swiftest runner. Black Eagle, 

They are all behind you." 

And they were all behind me. 

As the cloud's shadow is behind 

The bend of the grass under the wind. 

But as we neared the end of the race 

The onlookers, the gamblers, the old Indians, 

And the young bucks, 

Crowded close to the track — 

I fell and lost. 

Next day Tobacco Jim went about 
Lamenting his losses. 

[ 192 ] 



BLACK EAGLE RETURNS TO ST. JOE 

And when I told him they tripped me 

He cursed them. 

But later he went about asking in whispers 

If I was wise enough to throw the race. 

Then suddenly he disappeared. 

And we heard rumors of his riches, 

Of his dogs and ponies, 

And of the joyous life he was leading. 

Then my father took me to New Mexico, 

And here my life changed. 

I was no longer the runner, 

I had forgotten it all. 

I had become a wise Indian. 

I could do many things. 

I could read the white man's writing 

And write it. 

And Indians flocked to me: 

Billy the Pelican, Hooked Nosed Weasel, 

Hungry Mole, Big Jawed Prophet, 

And many others. 

They flocked to me, for I could help them. 

For the Great Spirit may pick a chief, 

Or a leader. 

But sometimes the chief rises 

By using wise Indians like me 

Who are rich in gifts and powers . . . 

[193] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

But at least it is true: 

All little great Indians 

Who are after ponies, 

Jugs of whiskey and soft blankets 

Gain their ends through the gifts and powers 

Of wise Indians like me. 

They come to you and ask you to do this. 

And to do that. 

And you do it, because it would be small 

Not to do it. 

And until all the cards are laid on the table 

You do not see what they were after, 

And then you see: 

They have won your friend away; 

They have stolen your hill; 

They have taken your place at the feast; 

They are wearing your feathers; 

They have much gold. 

And you are tired, and without laughter. 

And they drift away from you, 

As Tobacco Jim went away from me. 

And you hear of them as rich and great. 

And then you move on to another place, 

And another life. 

Billy the Pelican has built him a board house 

And lives in Guthrie. 

Hook Nosed Weasel is a Justice of the Peace. 

[194I 



BLACK EAGLE RETURNS TO ST. JOE 

Hungry Mole had his picture in the Denver News; 

He is helping the government 

To reclaim stolen lands. 

(Many have told me it was Hungry Mole 

Who tripped me in the race.) 

Big Jawed Prophet is very rich. 

He has disappeared as an eagle 

With a rabbit. 

And I have come back here 

Where twelve hundred moons ago 

Black Eagle before me 

Had the knife run through his ribs 

And through his heart. . . . 

I will hide this writing 

In the cleft of the oak 

By this bend in the river. 

Let him read who can: 

I was a swift runner whom they tripped. 



195] 



MY LIGHT WITH YOURS 



When the sea has devoured the ships, 

And the spires and the towers 

Have gone back to the hills. 

And all the cities 

Are one with the plains again. 

And the beauty of bronze, 

And the strength of steel 

Are blown over silent continents, 

As the desert sand is blown — 

My dust with yours forever. 

II 

When folly and wisdom are no more, 

And fire is no more, 

Because man is no more; 

When the dead world slowly spinning 

Drifts and falls through the void — 

My light with yours 

In the Light of Lights forever! 



[196] 



THE BLIND 

Amid the din of cars and automobiles, 
At the corner of a towering pile of granite, 
Under the city's soaring brick and stone, 
Where multitudes go hurrying by, you stand 
With eyeless sockets playing on a flute. 
And an old woman holds the cup for you. 
Wherein a curious passer by at times 
Casts a poor coin. 

You are so blind you cannot see us men 

As walking trees ! 

I fancy from the tune 

You play upon the flute, you have a vision 

Of leafy trees along a country road-side, 

Where wheat is growing and the meadow-larks 

Rise singing in the sun-shine! 

In your darkness 

You may see such things playing on your flute 

Here in the granite ways of mad Chicago ! 

And here's another on a farther corner. 

With head thrown back as if he searched the skies. 

He's selling evening papers, what's to him 

The flaring headlines ? Yet he calls the news. 

[197I 



TOWARD THE GULF 

That is his flute, perhaps, for one can call, 
Or play the flute in blindness. 

Yet I think 

It's neither news nor music with these blind ones- 

Rather the hope of re-created eyes, 

And a light out of death ! 

"How can it be," I hear them over and over, 

"There never shall be eyes for me again?" 



[198] 



"I PAY MY DEBT FOR LAFAYETTE AND 
ROCHAMBEAU" 

— His Own Words 

In Memory of Kiffin Rockwell 



Eagle, whose fearless 
Flight in vast spaces 
Clove the inane, 
While we stood tearless, 
White with rapt faces 
In wonder and pain. . . . 

Heights could not awe you, 
Depths could not stay you. 
Anguished we saw you, 
Saw Death way-lay you 
Where the storm flings 
Black clouds to thicken 
Round France's defender! 
Archangel stricken 
From ramparts of splendor- 
Shattered your wings! . . . 

But Lafayette called you, 
Rochambeau beckoned. 

[199] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Duty enthralled you. 

For France you had reckoned 

Her gift and your debt. 

Dull hearts could harden 

Half-gods could palter. 

For you never pardon 

If Liberty's altar 

You chanced to forget. . . . 

Stricken archangel! 

Ramparts of splendor 

Keep you, evangel 

Of souls who surrender 

No banner unfurled 

For ties ever living, 

Where Freedom has bound them. 

Praise and thanksgiving 

For love which has crowned them — 

Love frees the world ! . . . 



[ 200] 



CHRISTMAS AT INDIAN POINT 

Who is that calling through the night, 
A wail that dies when the wind roars? 
We heard it first on Shipley's Hill, 
It faded out at Comingoer's. 

Along five miles of wintry road 
A horseman galloped with a cry, 
"'Twas two o'clock," said Herman Pointer, 
"When I heard clattering hoofs go by." 

"I flung the winder up to listen; 
I heerd him there on Gordon's Ridge; 
I heerd the loose boards bump and rattle 
When he went over Houghton's Bridge." 

Said Roger Ragsdale: "I was doctorin' 
A heifer in the barn, and then 
My boy says: *Pap, that's Billy Paris.' 
'There/ says my boy, it is again." 

"Says I: 'That kain't be Billy Paris, 
We seed 'im at the Christmas tree. 
It's two o'clock,' says I, 'and Billy 
I seed go home with Emily.' 

r 20I 1 



TOWARD THE GULF 

He is too old for galavantin' 
Upon a night like this,' says I. 
'Well, pap,' says he, 'I know that frosty. 
Good-natured huskiness in that cry.' 

"' It kain't be Billy,' says I, swabbin' 
The heifer's tongue and mouth with brine, 
*I never thought — it makes me shiver. 
And goose-flesh up and down the spine.'" 

Said Doggie Traylor: "When I heard it 
I 'lowed 'twas Pin Hook's rowdy new 'uns. 
Them Cashner boys was at the schoolhouse 
Drinkin' there at the Christmas doin's." 

Said Pete McCue: "I lit a candle 

And held it up to the winder pane. 

But when I heerd again the holler 

'Twere half-way down the Bowman Lane." 

Said Andy Ensley: "First I knowed 
I thought he'd thump the door away. 
I hopped from bed, and says, 'Who is it?' 
'0, Emily,' I heard him say. 

"And there stood Billy Paris tremblin'. 
His face so white, he looked so queer. 
*0 Andy' — and his voice went broken. 
'Come in,' says I, 'and have a cheer.' 

r 202 ] 



CHRISTMAS AT INDIAN POINI' 

"'Sit by the fire,' I kicked the logs up, 
'What brings you here? — I would be told.' 
Says he. 'My hand just . . . happened near hers, 
It teched her hand . . . and it war cold. 

"'We got back from the Christmas doin's 
And went to bed, and she was sayin', 
(The clock struck ten) if it keeps snowin' 
To-morrow there'll be splendid sleighin'.' 

*"My hand teched hers, the clock struck two, 
And then I thought I heerd her moan. 
It war the wind, I guess, for Emily 
War lyin' dead. . . . She's thar alone.' 

"I left him then to call my woman 
To tell her that her mother died. 
When we come back his voice was steady, 
The big tears in his eyes was dried. 

"He just sot there and quiet like 
Talked 'bout the fishin' times they had. 
And said for her to die on Christmas 
Was somethin' 'bout it made him glad. 

"He grew so cam he almost skeered us. 
Says he: 'It's a fine Christmas over there.' 
Says he: 'She was the lovingest woman 
That ever walked this Vale of Care.' 
[ 203 ] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

"Says he: 'She alius laughed and sang, 
I never heerd her once complain.' 
Says he: 'It's not so bad a Christmas 
When she can go and have no pain.' 

"Says he: 'The Christmas's good for her.' 
Says he: . . . 'Not very good for me.' 
He hid his face then in his muffler 
And sobbed and sobbed, 'O Emily.'" 



204] 



WIDOW LA RUE 



I 



What will happen, Widow La Rue? 

For last night at three o'clock 

You woke and saw by your window again 

Amid the shadowy locust grove 

The phantom of the old soldier: 

A shadow of blue, like mercury light — 

What will happen. Widow La Rue? 

What may not happen 

In this place of summer loneliness ? 

For neither the sunlight of July, 

Nor the blue of the lake, 

Nor the green boundaries of cool woodlands, 

Nor the song of larks and thrushes, 

Nor the bravuras of bobolinks. 

Nor scents of hay new mown. 

Nor the ox-blood sumach cones, 

Nor the snow of nodding yarrow. 

Nor clover blossoms on the dizzy crest 

Of the bluff by the lake 

Can take away the loneliness 

Of this July by the lake! 



20S 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Last night you saw the old soldier 

By your window, Widow La Rue! 

Or was it your husband you saw, 

As he lay by the gate so long ago? 

With the iris of his eyes so black, 

And the white of his eyes so china-blue, 

And specks of blood on his face, 

Like a wall specked by a shake of a brush; 

And something like blubber or pinkish wax, 

Hiding the gash in his throat, — 

The serum and blood blown up by the breath 

From emptied lungs. 

n 

So Widow La Rue has gone to a friend 
For the afternoon and the night. 
Where the phantom will not come, 
Where the phantom may be forgotten. 
And scarcely has she turned the road, 
Round the water-mill by the creek. 
When the telephone rings and daughter Flora 
Springs up from a drowsy chair 
And the ennui of a book, 
And runs to answer the call. 
And her heart gives a bound, 
And her heart stops still. 
As she hears the voice, and a faintness courses 
[ 206 ] 



WIDOW LA RUE 

Quick as poison through all her frame. 

And something like bees swarming in her breast 

Comes to her throat in a surge of fear. 

Rapture, passion, for what is the voice 

But the voice of her lover? 

And just because she is here alone 

In this desolate summer-house by the lake; 

And just because this man is forbidden 

To cross her way, for a taint in his blood 

Of drink, from a father who died of drink; 

And just because he is in her thought 

By night and day. 

The voice of him heats her through like fire. 

She sways from dizziness, 

The telephone falls from her shaking hand. . . . 

He is in the village, is walking out. 

He will be at the door in an hour. 

Ill 

The sun is half a hand above the lake 
In a sky of lemon-dust down to the purple vastness: 
On the dizzy crest of the bluff the balls of clover 
Bow in the warm wind blowing across a meadow 
Where hay-cocks stand new-piled by the harvesters 
Clear to the forest of pine and beech at the meadow's 

end. 
A robin on the tip of a poplar's spire 
[207] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Sings to the sinking sun and the evening planet. 
Over the olive green of the darkening forest 
A thin moon slits the sky and down the road 
Two lovers walk. 

It is night when they reappear 
From the forest, walking the hay-field over. 
And the sky is so full of stars it seems 
Like a field of buckwheat. And the lovers look up, 
Then stand entranced under the silence of stars, 
And in the silence of the scented hay-field 
Blurred only by a lisp of the listless water 
A hundred feet below. 
And at last they sit by a cock of hay, 
As warm as the nest of a bird, 
Hand clasped in hand and silent, 
Large-eyed and silent. 



O, daughter Flora! 

Delicious weakness is on you now. 

With your lover's face above you. 

You can scarcely lift your hand. 

Or turn your head 

Pillowed upon the fragrant hay. 

You dare not open your moistened eyes 

For fear of this sky of stars. 

For fear of your lover's eyes. 

f 208l 



WIDOW LA RUE 

The trance of nature has taken you 

Rocked on creation's tide. 

And the kinship you feel for this man, 

Confessed this night — so often confessed 

And wondered at — 

Has coiled its final sorcery about you. 

You do not know what it is, 

Nor care what it is. 

Nor care what fate is to come, — 

The night has you. 

You only move white, fainting hands 

Against his strength, then let them fall. 

Your lips are parted over set teeth; 

A dewy moisture with the aroma of a woman's body 

Maddens your lover. 

And in a swift and terrible moment 

The mystery of love is unveiled to you. . . . 

Then your lover sits up with a sigh. 

But you lie there so still with closed eyes. 

So content, scarcely breathing under that ocean of 

stars. 
A night bird calls, and a vagrant zephyr 
Stirs your uncoiled hair on your bare bosom, 
But you do not move. 
And the sun comes up at last 
Finding you asleep in his arms, 
There by the hay cock. 

[209] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

And he kisses your tears away, 

And redeems his word of last night, 

For down to the village you go 

And take your vows before the Pastor there. 

And then return to the summer house. . . . 

All is well. 

IV 

Widow La Rue has returned 

And is rocking on the porch — 

What is about to happen ? 

For last night the phantom of the old soldier 

Appeared to her again — 

It followed her to the house of her friend. 

And appeared again. 

But more than ever was it her husband. 

With the iris of his eyes so black, 

And the white of his eyes so china-blue. 

And while she thinks of it. 

And wonders what is about to happen, • 

She hears laughter, 

And looking up, beholds her daughter 

And the forbidden lover. 



And then the daughter and her husband 
Come to the porch and the daughter says: 
[210] 



WIDOW LA RUE 

" We have just been married in the village, mother; 

Will you forgive us? 

This is your son; you must kiss your son." 

And Widow La Rue from her chair arises 

And calmly takes her child in her arms, 

And clasps his hand. 

And after gazing upon him 

Imperturbably as Clytemnestra looked 

Upon returning Agamemnon, 

With a light in her eyes which neither fathomed, 

She kissed him, 

And in a calm voice blessed them. 

Then sent her daughter, singing. 

On an errand back to the village 

To market for dinner, saying: 

"We'll talk over plans, my dear." 



And the young husband 

Rocks on the porch without a thought 

Of the lightning about to strike. 

And like Clytemnestra, Widow La Rue 

Enters the house. 

And while he is rocking, with all his spirit in a rythmic 

rapture. 
The Widow La Rue takes a seat in the room 
By a window back of the chair where he rocks, 
I211I 



TOWARD THE GULF 

And drawing the shade 
She speaks: 

"These two nights past I have seen the phantom of the 

old soldier 
Who haunts the midnights 
Of this summer loneliness. 
And I knew that a doom was at hand. . . . 
You have married my daughter, and this is the 

doom. . . . 
0, God in heaven!" 

Then a horror as of a writhing whiteness 
Winds out of the July glare 
And stops the flow of his blood, 
As he hears from the re-echoing room 
The voice of Widow La Rue 
Moving darkly between banks 
Of delirious fear and woe! 

"Be calm till you hear me through. . . . 
Do not move, or enter here, 
I am hiding my face from you. . . . 
Hear me through, and then fly. 
I warned her against you, but how could I tell her 
Why you were not for her.? 
But tell me now, have you come together? 
No ? Thank God for that. . . . 
For you must not come together. . . . 

[212] 



WIDOW LA RUE 

Now listen while I whisper to you : 

My daughter was born of a lawless love 

For a man I loved before I married, 

And when, for five years, no child came 

I went to this man 

And begged him to give me a child. . . . 

Well then . . . the child was born, your wife as it 

seems. . . . 
And when my husband saw her. 
And saw the likeness of this man in her face 
He went out of the house, where they found him later 
By the entrance gate 
With the iris of his eyes so black. 
And the white of his eyes so china-blue. 
And specks of blood on his face, 
Like a wall specked by a shake of a brush. 
And something like blubber or pinkish wax 
Hiding the gash in his throat — 
The serum and blood blown up by the breath 
From emptied lungs. Yes, there by the gate, O God! 
Quit rocking your chair! Don't you understand.? 
Quit rocking your chair! Go! Go! 
Leap from the blufF to the rocks on the shore ! 
Take down the sickle and end yourself! 
You don't care, you say, for all I've told you? 
Well, then, you see, you're older than Flora. . . . 
And her father died when she was a baby. . . . 
And you were four when your father died. . . . 

[ 213 ] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

And her father died on the very day 
That your father died, 
At the very same moment. . . . 
On the very same bed. . . . 
Don't you understand ? " 

VI 

He ceases to rock. He reels from the porch, 
He runs and stumbles to reach the road. 
He yells and curses and tears his hair. 
He staggers and falls and rises and runs. 
And Widow La Rue 
With the eyes of Clytemnestra 
Stands at the window and watches him 
Running and tearing his hair. 

vn 

She seems so calm when the daughter returns. 
She only says: "He has gone to the meadow. 
He will soon be back. . . ." 
But he never came back. 

And the years went on till the daughter's hair 

Was white as her mother's there in the grave. 

She was known as the bride whom the bridegroom left 

And didn't say good-bye. 

***** 
[214] 



DR. SCUDDER'S CLINICAL LECTURE 

I lectured last upon the morbus sacer, 
Or falling sickness, epilepsy, of old 
In Palestine and Greece so much ascribed 
To deities or devils. To resume 
We find it caused by morphological 
Changes of the cortex cells. Sometimes, 
More times, indeed, the anatomical 
Basis, if one be, escapes detection. 
For many functions of the cortex are 
Unknown, as I have said. 

And now remember 
Mercier's analysis of heredity: 
Besides direct transmission of unstable 
Nervous systems, there remains the law 
Hereditary of sanguinity. 
Then here's another matter: Parents may 
Have normal nervous systems, yet produce 
Children of abnormal nerves and minds. 
Caused by unsuitable sexual germs. 
Let me repeat before I leave the matter 
The factors in a perfect organization: 
First quality in the germ producing matter; 
Then quality in the sperm producing force, 

[215] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

And lastly relative fitness of the two. 

We are but plants, however high we rise, 

Whatever thoughts we have, or dreams we dream 

We are but plants, and all we are and do 

Depends upon the seed and on the soil. 

What Mendel found in raising peas may lead 

To perfect knowledge of the human mind. 

There is one law for men and peas, the law 

Makes peas of certain matter, and makes men 

And mind of certain matter, all depends 

Not on a varying law, but on a law 

Varied in its course by matter, as 

The arm, which is a lever and which works 

By lever principle cannot make use 

And form cement with trowel to the forms 

It makes of paint or marble. 

To resume: 
A child may take the qualities of one parent 
In some respects, and of the other parent 
In some respects. A child may have the traits 
Of father at one period of his life, 
The mother at one period of his life. 
And if the parents' traits are similar 
Their traits may be prepotent in a child, 
Thus giving rise to qualities convergent. 
So if you take a circle and draw off 
A line which would become another circle 
[216] 



DR. SCUDDER'S CLINICAL LECTURE 

If drawn enough, completed, but is left 

Half drawn or less, that illustrates a mind 

Of cumulative heredity. Take John, 

My gardener, John, within his sphere is perfect, 

John has a mind which is a perfect circle. 

A perfect circle can be small, you know. 

And so John has good sense within his sphere. 

But if some force began to work like yeast 

In brain cells, and his mind shot forth a line 

To make a larger thinking circle, say 

About a great invention, heaven or God, 

Then John would be abnormal, till this line 

Shot round and joined, became a larger circle. 

This is the secret of eccentric genius. 

The man is half a sphere, sticks out in space 

Does not enclose co-ordinated thought. 

He's like a plant mutating, half himself 

Half something new and greater. If we looked 

To John's heredity we'd find this change 

Was manifest in mother or in father 

About the self-same period of life, 

Most likely in his father. Attributes 

Of fathers are inherited by sons, 

Of mothers by the daughters. 

Now this morning 
I take up paranoia. Paranoics 
Are often noted for great gifts of mind. 
[217] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Mahomet, Swedenborg were paranoics, 

Joan of Arc, and Ossawatomie Brown, 

Cellini, many others. All who think 

Themselves inspired of God, and all who see 

Themselves appointed to a work, the subjects 

Of prophecies are paranoics. All 

Who visions have of God or archangels, 

Hear voices or celestial music, these 

Are paranoics. And whether it be they rise 

Enough above the earth to look along 

A longer arc and see realities, 

Or see strange things through atmospheric strata 

Which build up or distort the things they see 

Remains the question. Let us wait the proof. 

Last week I told you I would have to-day 
The skull and brain of Jacob Groesbell here. 
And lecture on his case. Here is the brain: 
Weight sixteen hundred grammes. Students may look 
After the lecture at the brain and skull. 
There's nothing anatomical at fault 
With this fine brain, so far as I can find. 
You'll note how deep the convolutions are. 
Arrangement quite symmetrical. The skull 
Is well formed too. The jaws are long you'll note. 
The palate roof somewhat asymmetrical. 
But this is scarce significant. Let me tell 
How Jacob Groesbell looked : 
[218] 



DR. SCUDDER'S CLINICAL LECTURE 

The man was tall, 
Had shapely hands and feet, but awkward limbs. 
His hair was brown and fine, his forehead high, 
And ran back at an angle, temples full. 
His nose was long and fleshy at the point, 
Was tilted to one side. His eyes were gray, 
The iris flecked. They looked as if a light 
As of a sun-set shone behind them. Ears 
Were very large, projected at right angles. 
His neck was slender, womanish. His skin 
Of finest texture, white and very smooth. 
His voice was quiet, musical. His manner 
Patient and gentle, modest, reasonable. 
His parents, as I learned through inquiry, 
Were Methodists, devout and greatly loved. 
The mother healthy both in mind and body. 
The father was eccentric, perhaps insane. 
They were first cousins. . 

I knew Jacob Groesbell 
Ten years before he died. I knew him first 
When he was sent to mend my porch. A workman 
With saw and hammer never excelled him. Then 
As time went on I saw him when he came 
At my request to do my carpentry. 
I grew to know him, and by slow degrees 
He told me of his readings in the Bible, 
And gave me his interpretations. At last 
[219] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Aged forty-six, had ulcers of the stomach. 

Which took him off. He sent for me, and said 

He wished me to attend him, which I did. 

He told me I could have his body and brain 

To lecture on, dissect, since some had said 

He was insane, he told me, and if so 

I should find something wrong with brain or body. 

And if I found a wrong then all his visions 

Of God and archangels were just the fancies 

That come to madmen. So he made provision 

To give his brain and body for this cause, 

And here's his brain and skull, and I am lecturing 

On Jacob Groesbell as a paranoic. 

As I have said before, in making tests 
And observations of the patient, have 
His conversation taken stenographically, 
In order to preserve his speech exactly. 
And catch the flow if he becomes excited. 
So we determine if he makes new words, 
If he be incoherent, or repeats. 
I took my secretary once to make 
A stenographic record. Strange enough 
He would not talk while she was writing down. 
And when I asked him why, he would not tell. 
So I devised a scheme: I took a satchel, 
And put in it a dictaphone, and when 
A cylinder was full I'd stoop and put 
[ 220] 



DR. SCUDDER'S CLINICAL LECTURE 

My hand among my bottles in the satchel, 

As if I was compounding medicine, 

Instead I'd put another cylinder on. 

And thus I got his story in his voice. 

Just as he talked, with nothing lost at all. 

Which you shall hear. For with this megaphone 

The students in the farthest gallery 

Can hear what Jacob Groesbell said to me. 

And weigh the thought that stirred within the brain 

Here in this jar beside me. Listen now 

To Jacob Groesbell's voice: 

"Will you repeat 
From the beginning connectedly the story 
Of your religious life, illumination. 
What you have called your soul's escape?" 

"I will, 
Since I shall never tell it again." 

"I grew up 
Timid and sensitive, not very strong, 
Not understood of father or of mother. 
They did not love me, and I never felt 
A tenderness for them. I used to quote: 
'Who is my mother and who are my brothers?' 
At school I was not liked. I had a chum 
From time to time, that's all. And I remember 
[221] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

My mother on a day put with my luncheon 

A bottle of milk, and when the noon hour came 

I missed it, found some boys had taken it. 

And when I asked for it, they made the cry: 

' Bottle of milk, bottle of milk,' and I 

Flushed through with shame, and cried, and to this 

hour 
It hurts me to remember it. Such days. 
All misery! For all my clothes were patched. 
They hooted at me. So I lived alone. 
At twelve years old I had great fears of death, 
And hell, heard devils in my room. One night 
During a thunderstorm heard clanking chains. 
And hid beneath the pillows. One spring day 
As I was walking on the village street 
Close to the church I heard a voice which said 
'Behold, my son' — and falling on my knees 
I prayed in ecstacy — but as I prayed 
Some passing school boys laughed, threw stones at me. 
A heat ran through me, I arose and fled. 
Well, then I joined the church and was baptized. 
But something left me in the ceremony, 
I lost my ecstacy, seemed slipping back 
Into the trap. I took to wandering 
In solitary places, could not bear 
To see a human face. I slept for nights 
In still ravines, or meadows. But one time 
Returning to my home, I found the room 

[ 222 ] 



DR. SCUDDER'S CLINICAL LECTURE 

Filled up with visitors — my heart stopped short, 
And glancing at the faces of my parents 
I hurried, bolted through, and did not speak, 
Entered a bed-room door and closed it. So 
I tell this just to illustrate my shyness, 
Which cursed my youth and made me miserable. 
Something I fought but could not overcome. 
And pondering on the Scriptures I could see 
How I resembled the saints, our Saviour even, 
How even as my brothers called me mad 
They called our Saviour so. 

" At fourteen years 
My father taught me carpentry, his trade. 
And made me work with him. I seemed to be 
The butt for jokes and laughter with the men — 
I know not why. For now and then they'd drop 
A word that showed they knew m-y secrets, knew 
I had heard voices, knew I loathed the lusts 
Of women, drink. Oh these were sorry years, 
God was not with me though I sought Him ever 
And I was persecuted for His sake. My brain 
Seemed like to burst at times, saw sparkling lights. 
Heard music, voices, made strange shapes of leaves, 
Clouds, trunks of trees, — illusions of the devil. 
I was turned twenty years when on an evening 
Calm, beautiful in June, after a day 
Of healthful toil, while sitting on the porch, 
[223 ] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

The sun just sinking, at my left I heard 
A voice of hollow clearness: "You are Christ." 
My eyes grew blind with tears for the evil 
Of such a thought, soul stained with such a thought, 
So devil stained, soul damned with blasphemy. 
I ran into my room and seized a pistol 
To end my life. God willed it otherwise. 
I fainted and awoke upon the floor 
After some hours. To heap my suffering full 
A few days after this while in the village 
I went into a store. The friendly clerk — 
I knew him always — said 'What will you have.? 
I wait first always on the little boys.' 
I laughed and went my way. But in an hour 
His saying rankled, I began to brood 
On ways of vengeance, till it seemed at last 
His life must pay. O, soul so full of sin. 
So devil tangled, tortured — which not prayer 
Nor watching could deliver. So I thought 
To save my soul from murder I must fly — 
I felt an urging as one does in sleep 
Pursued by giant things to fly, to fly 
From terror, death, from blankness on the scene, 
From emptiness, from beauty gone. The world 
Seemed something seen in fever, where the steps 
Of men are muffled, and a futile scheme 
Impels all steps. So packing up my kit, 
My Bible in my pocket, secretly 
[224] 



DR. SCUDDER'S CLINICAL LECTURE 

I disappeared. Next day took up my life 
In Barrington, a village thirty miles 
From all I knew, besides a lovely lake, 
Reached by a road that crossed a bridge 
Over a little bay, the bridge's ends 
Clustered with boats for fishermen. And here 
Night after night I fished, or stood and watched 
The star-light on the water. 

I grew calmer 
Almost found peace, got work to do, and lived 
Under a widow's roof, who was devout 
And knew my love for God. Now listen, doctor, 
To every word : I was now twenty-five. 
In perfect health, no longer persecuted. 
At peace with all the world, if not my soul 
Had wholly found its peace, for truth to tell 
It had an ache which sometimes I could feel. 
And yet I had this soul awakening. 
I know I have been counted mad, so watch 
Each detail here and judge. 

At four o'clock 
The thirtieth day of June, my work being done, 
My kit upon my back I walked this road 
Toward the village. 'Twas an afternoon 
Of clouds, no rain, a little breeze, the tinkle 
Of cow bells in the air, a heavenly silence 
I 225] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Pervading nature. Reaching the hill's foot 

I sat down by a tree to rest, enjoy 

The greenness of the forests, meadows, flats 

Along the bay, the blueness of the lake, 

The ripple of the water at my feet. 

The rythmic babble of the little boats 

Tied to the bridge. And as I sat there musing, 

Myself lost in the self, in time the clouds 

Lifted, blew off, to let the sun go down 

Over the waters gloriously to rest. 

So as I stared upon the sun on the water. 

Some minutes, though I know not for how long, 

Out of the splendor of the shining sun 

Upon the water, Jesus of Nazareth 

Clothed all in white, the nimbus round his brow. 

His face all wisdom, love, rose to my view, 

And then he spake: 'Jacob, my son, arise 

And come with me.' 

" And in an instant there 
Something fell from me, I became a cloud, 
A soul with wings. A glory burned about me. 
And in that glory I perceived all things: 
I saw the eternal wheels, the deepest secrets 
Of creatures, herbs and grass, and stars and suns 
And I knew God, and knew all things as God : 
The All loving, the Perfect One, the Perfect Wisdom, 
Truth, love and purity. And in that instant 
[ 226 ] 



DR. SCUDDER'S CLINICAL LECTURE 

Atoms and molecules I saw, and faces, 
And how they are arranged order to order, 
With no break in the order, one harmonious 
Whole of universal life all blended 
And interfused with universal love. 
And as it was with Shelley so I cried. 
And clasped my hands in ecstacy and rose 
And started back to climb the hill again. 
Scarce knowing, neither caring what I did, 
Nor where I went, and thinking if this be 
A fancy only of the Saviour then 
He will not follow me, and if it be 
Himself, indeed, he will not let me fall 
After the revelation. As I reached 
The brow of the hill, I felt his presence with me 
And turned, and saw Him. 'Thou hast faith, my son, 
Who knowest me, when they who walked with me 
Toward Emmaus knew me not, to whom I told 
All secrets of the scriptures beginning at Moses, 
Who knew me not till I brake bread and then. 
As after thought could say, Did not our heart 
Within us burn while he talked. O, Jacob Groesbell, 
Thou carpenter, as I was, greatly blessed 
With visions and my Father's love, this walk 
Is your walk toward Emmaus.' So he talked, 
Expounding all the scriptures, telling me 
About the race of men who live and move 
Along a life of meat and drink and sleep 
[227] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

And comforts of the flesh, while here and there 
A hungering soul is chosen to lift up 
And re-create the race. 'The prophet, poet 
Must seek and must find God to keep the race 
Awake to the divine and to the orders 
Of universal and harmonious life. 
All interfused with Universal love, 
Which love is God, lest blindness, atheism, 
Which sees no order, reason, no intent 
Beat down the race to welter in the mire 
When storms, and floods come. And the sons of God, 
The leaders of the race from age to age 
Are chosen for their separate work, each work 
Fits in the given order. All who suff"er 
The martyrdom of thought, whether they think 
Themselves as servants of my Father, or even 
Mock at the images and rituals 
Which prophets of dead creeds did symbolize 
The mystery they sensed, or whether they be 
Spirits of laughter, logic, divination 
Of human life, the human soul, all men 
Who give their essence, blindly or in vision 
In faith that life is worth their utmost love, 
They are my brothers and my Father's sons.' 
So Jesus told me as we took my walk 
Toward my Emmaus. After a time we turned 
And walked through heading rye and purple vetch 
Into an orchard where great rows of pears 
[228 I 



DR. SCUDDER'S CLINICAL LECTURE 

Sloped up a hill. It was now evening: 
Stretches of scarlet clouds were in the west, 
And a half moon was hanging just above 
The pears' white blossoms. O, that evening! 
We came back to the boats at last and loosed 
One of them and rowed out into the bay, 
And fished, while the stars appeared. He only said 
'Whatever they did with me you too shall do.' 
A haziness came on me now. I seem 
To find myself alone there in that boat. 
At mid-night I awoke, the moon was sunk. 
The whippoorwills were singing. I walked home 
Back to the village in a silence, peace, 
A happiness profound. 

"And the next morning 
I awoke with aching head, spent body, yet 
With spiritual vision so intense I looked 
Through things material as if they were 
But shadows — old things passed away or grew 
A lovelier order. And my heart was full. 
Infinitely I loved, and infinitely was loved. 
My landlady looked at me sharply, asked 
What hour I entered, where I was so late. 
I only answered fishing. For I told 
No person of my vision, went my way 
At carpentry in silence, in great joy. 
For archangels and powers were at my side, 

[229] 



TOWARD THE GULF = 

They led me, bore me up, instructed me 
In mysteries, and voices said to me 
'Write' as the voice in Patmos said to John. 
I wrote and printed and the village read. 
And called me mad. And so I grew to see 
The deepest truths of God, and God Himself, 
The geniture of all things, of the Word 
Becoming flesh in Christ. I knew all ages. 
Times, empires, races, creeds, the human weakness 
Which makes life wearisome, confused and pained. 
And how the search for something (it is God) 
Makes divers worships, fire, the sun, and beasts 
Takes form in Eleusinian mysteries 
Or festivals where sex, the vine, the Earth 
At harvest time have praise or reverence. 
I knew God, talked with God, and knew that God 
Is more than Thought or Love. Our twisted brains 
Are but the wires in the bulb which stays, 
Resists the current and makes human thought. 
As the electric current is not light 
But heat and power as well. Our little brains 
Resist God and make thought and love as well. 
But God is more than these. Oh I heard much 
Of music, heard the whirring as of wheels, 
Or buzzing as of ears when a room is still. 
That is the axis of profoundest life 
Which turns and rests not. And I heard the cry 
And hearing wept, of man's soul, heard the ages, 
[230] 



DR. SCUDDER'S CLINICAL LECTURE 

The epochs of this earth as It were the feet 
Of multitudes in corridors. And I knew 
The agony of genius and the woe 
Of prophets and the great. 

"From that next morning 
I searched the scriptures with more fervid zeal 
Than I had ever done. I could not open 
Its pages anywhere but I could find 
Myself set forth or mirrored, pointed to. 
I could not doubt my destiny was bound 
With man's salvation. Jeremiah said 
'Take forth the precious from the vile.' Those words 
To me were spoken, and to no one else. 
And so I searched the scriptures. And I found 
I never had a thought, experience, pang, 
A state in human life our Saviour had not. 
He was a carpenter, and so was I. 
He had his soul's illumination, so had I. 
His brethren called him mad, they called me mad. 
He triumphed over death, so shall I triumph. 
For I could, I can feel my way along 
Death's stages as a man can reach and feel 
Ahead of him along a wall. I know 
This body is a shell, a butterfly's 
Excreta pushed away with rising wings. 

"I searched the scriptures. How should I believe 
Paul's story, not my own ? Did he not see 

[231] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

At mid-day in the way a light from heaven 
Above the brightness of the sun and hear 
The voice of Jesus saying to him 'Saul,' 
Why persecutest thou me?' And did not Festus, 
Before whom Paul stood speaking for himself, 
Call Paul a mad man ? Even while he spake 
Such words as none but men inspired can speak, 
As well as words of truth and soberness. 
Such as myself speak now. 

"And from the scriptures 
I passed to studies of the men who came 
To great illuminations. You will see 
There are two kinds: One's of the intellect, 
The understanding, one is of the soul. 
The x-ray lets the eye behind the flesh 
To see the ribs, or heart beat, choose! So men 
In their illumination see the frame-work 
Of life or see its spirit, so align 
Themselves with Science, Satire, or align 
Themselves with Poetry or Prophecy. 
So being Aristotle, Rabelais, 
Paul, Swedenborg. 

"And as the years 
Went on, as I had time, was fortunate 
In finding books I read of many men 
Who had illumination, as I had it. Read 

[232] 



DR. SCUDDER'S CLINICAL LECTURE 

Of Dante's vision, how he found himself 

Saw immortality, lost fear of death. 

Read Swedenborg, who left the intellect 

At fifty-four for God, and entered heaven 

Before he quitted life and saw behind 

The sun of fire, a sun of love and truth. 

Read Whitman who exclaimed to God: 'Thou knowest 

My manhood's visionary meditations 

Which come from Thee, the ardor and the urge. 

Thou lightest my life with rays ineffable 

Beyond all signs, descriptions, languages.' 

Read Blake, Spinoza, Emerson, read Wordsworth 

Who wrote of something 'deeply interfused, 

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns. 

And the round ocean and the living air, 

And the blue skies, and in the mind of man — 

A motion and a spirit that impels 

All thinking things, all objects of all thought 

And rolls through all things.' 

"And at last they called me 
The mad, and learned carpenter. And then — 
I'm growing faint. Your hand, hold . . ." 

At this point 
He fainted, sank into a stupor. There 
I watched him, to discover if 'twas death. 
But soon I saw him rally, then he spoke. 

[233] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

There was some other talk, but not of moment. 
I had to change the cylinder — the talk 
Was broken, rambling, and of trifling things. 
Throws no light on the case, being sane enough. 
He died next morning. 

Students who desire 
To examine the skull and brain may do so now 
At their convenience in the laboratory. 



234 1 



FRIAR YVES 

Said Friar Yves: "God will bless 
Saint Louis' other-worldliness. 
Whatever the fate be, still I fare 
To fight for the Holy Sepulcher. 
If I survive, I shall return 
With precious things from Palestine — 
Gold for my purse, spices and wine, 
Glory to wear among my kin. 
Fame as a warrior I shall win. 
But, otherwise, if I am slain 
In Jesus' cause, my soul shall earn 
Immortal life washed white from sin." 

Said Friar Yves: "Come what will — 
Riches and glory, death and woe — 
At dawn to Palestine I go. 
Whether I live or die, I gain 
To fly the tepid good and ill 
Of daily living in Champagne, 
Where those who reach salvation lose 
The treasures, raptures of the earth. 
Captured, possessed, and made to serve 
The gospel love of Jesus' birth. 
Sacrifice, death; where even those 

[235] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Passing from pious works and prayer 

To paradise are not received 

As those who battled, strove, and lived, 

And periled bodies, as I choose 

To peril mine, and thus to use 

Body and soul to build the throne 

Of Louis the Saint, where Joseph's care 

Lay Jesus under a granite stone." 

Then Friar Yves buckled on 
His breastplate, and, at break of dawn, 
With crossboy, halberd took his way, 
Walked without resting, without pause. 
Till the sun hovered at midday 
Over a tree of glistening leaves, 
Where a spring gurgled. "Hunger gnaws 
My stomach," whispered Friar Yves. 
"If I," he sighed, "could only gain, 
Like yonder spring, an inner source 
Of life, and need not dew or rain 
Of human love, or human friends. 
And thus accomplish my soul's ends 
Within myself! No," said the friar; 
"There is one water and one fire; 
There is one Spirit, which is God. 
And what are we but streams and springs 
Through which He takes His wanderings ? 
Lord, I am weak, I am afraid; 
[236] 



FRIAR YVES 

Show me the way!" the friar prayed. 
"Where do I flow and to what end? 
Am I of Thee, or do I blend 
Hereafter with Thee ? " 

Yves heard, 
While praying, sounds as when the sod 
Teems with a swarm of insect things. 
He dropped his halberd to look down, 
And then his waking vision blurred. 
As one before a light will frown. 
His inner ear was caught and stirred 
By voices; then the chestnut tree 
Became a step beside a throne. 
Breathless he lay and fearfully, 
While on his brain a vision shone. 

Said a Great Voice of sweetest tone: 
"The time has come when I must take 
The form of man for mankind's sake. 
This drama is played long enough 
By creatures who have naught of me, 
Save what comes up from foam of the sea 
To crawling moss or swimming weeds. 
At last to man. From heaven in flame. 
Pure, whole, and vital, down I fly. 
And take a mortal's form and name, 
And labor for the race's needs." 

[237] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Then Friar Yves dreamed the sky 

Flushed like a bride's face rosily, 

And shot to lightning from its bloom. 

The world leaped like a babe in the womb, 

And choral voices from heaven's cope 

Circled the earth like singing stars: 

"0 wondrous hope, O sweetest hope, 

O passion realized at last; 

O end of hunger, fear, and wars, 

victory over the bottomless, vast 

Valley of Death!" 

A silence fell, 
Broke by the voice of Gabriel: 
"Music may follow this, Lord! 
Music I hear; I hear discord 
Through ages yet to be, as well. 
There will be wars because of this, 
And wars will come in its despite. 
It's noon on the world now; blackest night 
Will follow soon. And men will miss 
The meaning. Lord ! There will be strife 
'Twixt Montanist and Ebionite, 
Gnostic, Mithraist, Manichean, 
'Twixt Christian and the Saracen. 
There will be war to win the place 
Where you bend death to sovereign life. 
Armed kings will battle for the grace 

[238] 



FRIAR YVES 

Of rulership, for power and gold 
In the name of Jesus. Men will hold 
Conclaves of swords to win surcease 
Of doctrines of the Prince of Peace. 
The seed is good, Lord, make the ground 
Good for the seed you scatter round ! " 

Said the Great Voice of sweetest tone: 
"The gardener sprays his plants and trees 
To drive out lice and stop disease. 
After the spraying, fruit is grown 
Ruddy and plump. The shortened eyes 
Of men can see this end, although 
Leaves wither or a whole tree dies 
From what the gardener does to grow 
Apples and plums of sweeter flesh. 
The gardener lives outside the tree; 
The gardener knows the tree can see 
What cure is needed, plans afresh 
An end foreseen, and there's the will 
Wherewith the gardener may fulfil 
The orchard's destiny." 

So He spake. 
And Friar Yves seemed to wake, 
But did not wake, and only sunk 
Into another dreaming state. 
Wherein he saw a woman's form 
[239] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Leaning against the chestnut's trunk. 
Her body was virginal, white, and straight, 
And glowed like a dawning, golden, warm, 
Behind a robe of writhing green : 
As when a rock's wall makes a screen 
Whereon the crisscross reflect moves 
Of circling water under the rays 
Of April sunlight through the sprays 
Of budding branches in willow groves — 
A liquid mosaic of green and gold — 
Thus was her robe. 

But to behold 
Her face was to forget the youth 
Of her white bosom. All her hair 
Was tangled serpents; she did wear 
A single eye in the middle brow. 
Her cheeks were shriveled, and one tooth 
Stuck from shrunken gums. A bough 
O'ershadowed her the while she gripped 
A pail in either hand. One dripped 
Clear water; one, ethereal fire. 
Then to the Graia spoke the friar: 
"Have mercy! Tell me your desire 
And what you are?" 

Then the Graia said: 
"My body is Nature and my head 
I 240] 



FRIAR YVES 

Is Man, and God has given me 

A seeing spirit, strong and free. 

Though by a single eye, as even 

Man has one vision at a time. 

I Hft my pails up; mark them well. 

With this fire I will burn up heaven, 

And with this water I will quench 

The flames of hell's remotest trench, 

That men may work in righteousness. 

Not for the fears of an after hell. 

Nor for the rewards which heaven will bless 

The soul with when the mountains nod 

And the sun darkens, but for love 

Of Man and Life, and love of God. 

Now look!" 

She dashed the pail of fire 
Against the vault of heaven. It fell 
As would a canopy of blue 
Burned by a soldier's careless torch. 
She dashed the water into hell, 
And a great steam rose up with the smell 
Of gaseous coals, which seemed to scorch 
All things which on the good earth grew. 
"Now," said the Graia, "loiterer. 
Awake from slumber, rise and speed 
To fight for the Holy Sepulcher — 

[241] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Nothing is left but Life, indeed — 

I have burned heaven! I have quenched hell.' 

Friar Yves no longer slept; 
Friar Yves awoke and wept. 



[242] 



THE EIGHTH CRUSADE 

June, but we kept the fire place piled with logs, 

And every day it rained. And every morning 

I heard the wind and rain among the leaves. 

Try as I would my spirits grew no better. 

What was it? Was I ill or sick in mind."* 

I spent the whole day working with my hands. 

For there was brush to clear and corn to plant 

Between the gusts of rain; and there at night 

I sat about the room and hugged the fire. 

And the rain dripped and the wind blew, we shivered 

For cold and it was June. I ached all through 

For my hard labor, why did muscles grow not 

To hardness and cure body, if 'twere body. 

Or soul if it were soul ? 

But there at night 
As I sat aching, worn, before the hour 
Of sleep, and restless in this interval 
Of nothingness, the silence out-of-doors, 
Timed by the dripping rain, and by the slap 
Of cards upon a table by a boarder 
Who passed the time in playing solitaire, 
Sometimes my ancient host would fill his pipe, 
And scrape away the dust of long past years 

[243] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

To show me what had happened in his life. 
And as he smoked and talked his aged wife 
Would parallel his theme, as a brooks' branches 
Formed by a slender island, flow together. 
Or yet again she'd intercalate a touch, 
An episode or version. And sometimes 
He'd make her hush; or sometimes he'd suspend 
While she went on to what she wished to finish. 
When he'd resume. They talked together thus. 
He found the story and began to tell it, 
And she hung on his story, told it too. 

This night the rain came down in buckets full. 

And Claude who brought the logs in showed his breath 

Between the opening of the outer door 

And the swift on-rush of the room's warm air. 

And my host who had hoed the whole day long, 

Hearty at eighty years, sat with his pipe 

Reading the organ of the Adventists, 

His wife beside him knitting. 

On the table 
Are several magazines with their monthly grist 
Of stories and of pictures. O such stories! 
Who writes these stories? How does it happen people 
Are born into the world to read these stories.? 
But anyway the lamp is very bad. 
And every bone in me aches — and why always 
[244I 



THE EIGHTH CRUSADE 

Must one be either reading, knitting, talking? 
Why not sit quietly and think? 

At last 
Between the clicking needles and the slap 
Of cards upon the table and the swish 
Of rain upon the window my host speaks : 
"It says here when the Germans are defeated, 
And that means when the Turks are beaten too, 
The Christian world will take back Palestine, 
And drive the Turks out. God be praised, I hope so." 
"Amen" breaks in the wife. "May we both live 
To see the day. Perhaps you'll get your trunk back 
From Jaffa if the Allies win." 

To me 
The wife turns and goes on, "He has a trunk, 
At least his trunk went on to Jaffa, and 
It never came back. The bishop's trunk came back, 
But his trunk never came." 

And then the husband : 
*'What are you saying, mother, you go on 
As if our friend here knew the story too. 
And then you talk as if our hope of the war 
Was centered on recovering that trunk." 

"Oh, not at all 
But if the Allies win, and the trunk is there 

[245] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

In Jaffa you might get it back. You know 
You'll never get it back while infidels 
Rule Palestine." 

The husband says to me: 
"It looks as if she thought that trunk, of mine, 
Which went to Jaffa fifty years ago, 
Is in existence yet, when chances are 
They kept it for awhile, and sold it off, 
Or threw it away." 

"They never threw it away. 
Why I made him a dozen shirts or more, 
And knitted him a lot of lovely socks. 
And made him neck-ties, and that trunk contained 
Everything that a man might need in absence 
A year from home. And yet they threw it away!" 

"They might have done so." 

"But they never did. 
Perhaps they threw your cabinet tools away?" 
"They were too valuable." 

"Too valuable, 
Fine socks and shirts are worthless are they, yes." 

"Not worthless, but fine tools are valuable." 
He turns to me: "I lost a box of tools 
Sent on to Jaffa, too. The scheme was this: 
[246] 



THE EIGHTH CRUSADE 

To work at cabinet making while observing 
Conditions there in Palestine, and get ready 
To drive the Turks from Palestine." 

What's this? 
I rub my eyes and wake up to this story. 
I'm here in Illinois, in a farmer's house 
Who boards stray fishermen, and takes me in. 
And in a moment Turks and Palestine, 
And that old dream of Louis the Saint arise 
And show me how the world is small, and a man 
Native to Illinois may travel forth 
And mix his life with ancient things afar. 
To-day be raising corn here and next month 
Walking the streets of Jaffa, in Mycenae, 
Digging for Grecian relics. 

So I asked 
"Were you in Palestine?" And the wife spoke quick: 
*'He didn't get there, that's the joke of it." 
And the husband said: "It wasn't such a joke. 
You see it was this way, myself and the bishop, 
He lived in Springfield, I in Pleasant Plains, 
Had planned to meet in Switzerland." 

"Montreaux" 
The wife broke in. 

"Montreaux" the husband added. 
"You said you two had planned it," she went on. 

[ 247 ] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Now looking over specks and speaking louder: 
"The bishop came to him, he planned it out. 
My husband didn't plan the trip at all. 
He knows the bishop planned it." 

Then the husband: 
"Oh for that matter he spoke of it first, 
And I acceded and we worked it out. 
He was to go ahead of me, I was 
To come in later, soon as I could raise 
What funds my congregation could afford 
To spare for this adventure." 

"Guess," she said, 
"How much it was." 

I shook my head and she 
Said in a lowered and a tragic voice: 
"Four hundred dollars, and you can believe 
It strapped his church to raise so great a sum. 
And if they hadn't thought that Christ would come 
Scarcely before the plan could be put through 
Of winning back the Holy Land, that sum 
Had never been made up and put in gold 
For him to carry in a chamois belt." 

And then the husband said: "Mother, be still, 
I'll tell our friend the story if you'll let me." 

[248] 



THE EIGHTH CRUSADE 

"I'm done," she said. "I wanted to say that. 
Go on," she said. 

And so he started over: 
"The bishop came to me and said he thought 
The Advent would be June of seventy-six. 
This was the winter of eighteen seventy-one. 
He said he had a dream; and in this dream 
An angel stood beside him, told him so, 
And told him to get me and go to Jaffa, 
And live there, learn the people and the country. 
We were to live disguised the better to learn 
The people and the country. I was to work 
At my trade as a cabinet maker, he 
At carpentry, which was his trade, and so 
No one would know us, or suspect our plan. 
And thus we could live undisturbed and work, 
And get all things in readiness, that in time 
The Lord would send us power, and do all things. 
We were the messengers to go ahead 
And make the ways straight, so I told her of it." 

"You told me, yes, but my trust was as great 
As yours was in the bishop, little the good 
To tell me of it." 

"Well, I told you of it. 
And she said, ' If the Lord commands you so 

[249] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

You must obey/ And so she knit the socks 
And made that trunk of things, as she has said. 
And in six weeks I sailed from Philadelphia." 

"'Twas nearer two months," said the wife. 

"Perhaps, 
Somewhere between six weeks and that. The bishop 
Left Springfield in a month from our first talk. 
I knew, for I went over when he left. 
And I remember how his poor wife cried, 
And how the children cried. He had a family 
Of some eight children." 

"Only seven then. 
The son named David died the year before." 

"Mother, you're right, 'twas seven children then. 
The oldest was not more than twelve, I think. 
And all the children cried, and at the train 
His congregation almost to a man 
Was there to see him off." 

"Well, one was missing. 
You know, you know," the wife said pregnantly. 

"I'll come to that in time, if you'll be still. 
Well, so the bishop left, and in six weeks, 
[250] 



THE EIGHTH CRUSADE 

Or somewhere there, I started for Montreaux 

To meet the bishop. Shipped ahead my trunk 

To Jaffa as the bishop did. But now 

I must tell you my dream. The night before 

I reached Montreaux I had a wondrous dream: 

I saw the bishop on the station platform 

His face with brandy blossoms splotched and wearing 

His gold head cane. And sure enough next day 

As I stepped from the train I saw the bishop 

His face with brandy blossoms splotched and wearing 

His gold head cane. And I thought something wrong, 

And still I didn't act upon the thought." 

"I should say not," the wife broke in again. 

"Oh, well what could I do, if I had thought 

More clearly than I did that things were wrong. 

You can't uproot the confidence of years 

Because of dreams. And as to brandy blossoms 

I knew his face was red, but didn't know. 

Or think just then, that brandy made it red. 

And so I went up to the house he lived in — 

A mansion beautiful, and we sat down. 

And he sat there bolt upright in a rocker. 

Hands spread upon his knees, his black eyes bigger 

Than I had ever seen them, eyeing me 

Silently for a moment, when he said: 

'What money did you bring?' And so I told him. 

[251] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

And he said quickly *let me have it.' So 

I took my belt off, counted out the gold 

And gave it to him. And he took it, thrust it 

With this hand in this pocket, that in that, 

And sat there and said nothing more, just looked! 

And then before a word was spoke again 

I heard a step upon the stair, the stair 

Came down into this room where we were sitting. 

And I looked up, and there — I rubbed my eyes — 

I looked again, rose from my chair to see, 

And saw descending the most lovely woman, 

Who was" — 

"A lovely woman," sneered the wife 
"Well, she was just affinity to the bishop, 
That's what she was." 

"Affinity is right — 
You see she was the leader in the choir. 
And she had run away with him, or rather 
Had gone abroad upon another boat 
And met him in Montreaux. Now from this time 
For forty hours or so all is a blank. 
I just remember trying to speak and choking, 
And flying from the room, the bishop clutching 
At my coat sleeve to hold me. After that 
I can't recall a thing until I saw 
A little cottage way up in the Alps. 

[252] 



THE EIGHTH CRUSADE 

I was knocking at the door, was faint and sick, 

The door was opened and they took me in, 

And warmed me with a glass of wine, and tucked me 

In a good bed where I slept half a week. 

It seems in my bewilderment I wandered, 

Ran, stumbled, climbed for forty hours or so 

By rocky chasms, up the piney slopes." 

"He might have lost his life," the wife exclaimed. 

"These were the kindest people in the world, 
A French family. They gave me splendid food, 
And when I left two francs to reach the place 
Where lived the English Consul, who arranged 
After some days for money for my passage 
Back to America, and in six weeks 
I preached a sermon here in Pleasant Plains." 

"Beware of false prophets was the text!" she said. 

And I who heard this story through spoke up: 

"The thing about this that I fail to get 

Concerns this woman, the affinity. 

If, as seems evident, she and the bishop 

Had planned this run-a-way and used the faith. 

And you, the congregation to get money 

To do it with, or used you in particular 

To get the money for themselves to live on 

[253] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

After they had arrived there in Montreaux, 

If all this be" I said, "why did this woman 

Descend just at the moment when he asked you 

For the money that you had. You might have seen her 

Before you gave the money, if you had 

You might have held it back." 

"I would indeed, 
You can be sure I should have held it back." 

And then the old wife gasped and dropped her knitting. 

"Now, James, you let me answer that, I know. 
She was done with the bishop, that's the reason. 
Be still and let me answer. Here's the story: 
We found out later that the bishop's trunk 
And kit of tools had been returned from Jaffa 
There to Montreaux, were there that very day, 
Which means the bishop never meant to go 
To Palestine at all, but meant to meet 
This woman in Montreaux and live with her. 
Well, that takes money. So he used my husband 
To get that money. Now you wonder I see 
Why she would chance the spoiling of the scheme, 
Descend into the room before my husband 
Had given up this money, and this money, 
You see, was treated as a common fund 
Belonging to the church and to be used 

[254] 



THE EIGHTH CRUSADE 

To get back Palestine, and so the bishop 

As head of the church, superior to my husband, 

Could say 'give me the money' — ^that was natural, 

My husband could not be surprised at that, 

Or question it. Well, why did she descend 

And almost lose the money? Oh, the cat! 

I know what she did, as well as I had seen 

Her do it. Yes, she listened at the landing. 

And when she heard my husband tell the sum 

Which he had brought, it wasn't enough to please her. 

And Satan entered in her heart, and she 

Waited until she heard the bishop's pockets 

Clink with the double eagles, then descended 

To expose the bishop and disgrace him there 

And everywhere in all the world. Now listen: 

She got that money or the most of it 

In spite of what she did. For in six weeks 

After my husband had returned, she walked. 

The brazen thing, the public streets of Springfield 

As jaunty as you please, and pretty soon 

The bishop died and all the papers printed 

The story of his shame." 

She had scarce finished 
When the man at solitaire threw down the deck 
And make a whacking noise and rose and came 
Around in front of us and stood and looked 
The old man and old woman over, me 

US5 ] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

He studied too. Then in an organ voice: 
"Is there a single verse in the New Testament 
That hasn't sprouted one church anyway, 
Letting alone the verses that have sprouted 
Two, three or four or five? I know of one: 
Where is it that it says that "Jesus wept"? 
Let's found a church on that verse, "Jesus wept." 
With that he went out in the rain and slammed 
The door behind him. 

The old clergyman 
Had fallen asleep. His wife looked up and said, 
"That man is crazy, ain't he? I'm afraid." 



[256] 



THE BISHOPS DREAM OF THE HOLY 
SEPULCHRE 

A lassie sells the War Cry on the corner 

And the big drum booms, and the raucous brass horns 

Mingle with the cymbals and the silver triangle. 

I stand a moment listening, then my friend 

Who studies all religions, finds a wonder 

In Orphic spectacles like this, lays hold 

Upon my arm and draws me to a door 

Through which we look and see a room of seats, 

A platform at the end, a table on it. 

And signs upon the wall, "Jesus is Waiting," 

And "God is Love." 

We enter, take a seat. 
The band comes in and fills the room to bursting 
With horns and drums. They cease and feet are heard. 
The crowd has followed, half the seats are full. 
After a prayer, a song, the captain mounts 
The platform by the table and begins : 
"Praise God so many girls are here to-night, 
And Sister Trickey, by the grace of God 
Saved from the wrath to come, will speak to you." 
So Sister Trickey steps upon the platform, 
A woman nearing forty, one would say. 

[257] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Blue-eyed, fair skinned, and yellow haired, a figure 
Once trim enough, no doubt, grown stout at last. 
She was a pretty woman in her time, 
'Twas plain to see. A shrewd intelligence 
From living in the world shines in her face. 
We settle down to hear from Sister Trickey 
And in a moment she begins: 

"Young girls: 
I thank the Lord for Jesus, for he saved me, 
I thank the Lord for Jesus every hour. 
No woman ever stained with redder sins 
Had greater grace than mine. Praise God for Jesus! 
Praise God for blood that washes sins away! 
I was a woman fallen till Lord Jesus 
Forgave me, helped me up and made me clean. 
My name is Lilah Trickey. Let me tell you 
How music was my tempter. Oh, you girls, 
If there be one before me who can sing 
Beware the devil and beware your voice 
That it be used for Jesus, not for Satan." 

"I had a voice, was leader of the choir. 
But Satan entered in my voice to tempt 
The bishop of the church, and in my heart 
To tempt and use the bishop; in the bishop 
Old Satan slipped to lure me from the path. 
He fell from grace for listening. And I 
[258] 



THE BISHOP'S DREAM OF HOLY SEPULCHRE 

Whose voice had turned him over to the devil 

Fell as he fell. He dragged me down with him. 

No use to make it long, one word's enough: 

Old Satan is the first word and the last, 

And all between is nothing. It's enough 

To say the bishop and myself eloped 

Went to Montreaux. He left a wife and children. 

And I poor silly thing with promises 

Of culture of my voice in Paris, lost 

Good name and all. And he lost all as well. 

Good name, his soul I fear, because he took 

The church's money saying he would use it 

To win the Holy Sepulchre, in fact 

Intending all the while to use the money 

For travel and for keeping up a house 

With me as soul-mate. For he never meant 

To let me go to Paris for my voice. 

He never got enough to pay for that. 

On that point he betrayed me, now I see 

'Twas God who used him to deceive me there, 

And leave me to return to Springfield broken, 

An out-cast, fallen woman, shamed and scorned.'* 

"We took a house in Montreaux, plain enough 
As we looked at it passing, but within 
'Twas sweet and fair as Satan could desire: 
Engravings on the wall and marble mantels. 
Gilt clocks upon the mantels, lovely rugs, 

[259] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Chests full of linen, silver, pewter, china. 

Soft beds with canopies of figured satin. 

The scent of apple blossoms through the rooms. 

A little garden, vines against the wall. 

There were the lake and mountains. Oh, but Satan 

Baited the hook with beauty. But the bishop 

Seemed self-absorbed, depressed and never smiled. 

And every time his face came close to mine 

I smelled the brandy on him. Conscience whipped 

Its venomed tail against his peace of mind. 

And so he took the brandy to benumb 

The sting of conscience and to dull the pain. 

He told me he had business in Montreaux 

Which would require some weeks, would there be met 

By people who had money for him. I 

Was twenty-three and green, besides I walked 

In dreamland thinking of the promised schooling 

In Paris — oh 'twas music, as I said." . . . 

"At last one day he said a friend was coming, 

And he went to the station. Very soon 

I heard their steps, the bishop and his friend. 

They entered. I was curious and sat 

Upon the stair-way's landing just to hear. 

And this is what I heard. The bishop asked: 

'You've brought some money, how much have you 

brought?' 
The man replied 'four hundred dollars.' Then 
[260I 



THE BISHOP'S DREAM OF HOLY SEPULCHRE 

The bishop said: 'I'll take it.' In a moment 
I heard the clinking gold and heard the bishop 
Putting it in his pocket." 

" God forgive me, 
I never was so angry in my life. 
The bishop had been talking in big figures, 
We would have thousands for my voice and Paris, 
And here was just a paltry sum. Scarce knowing 
Just what I did, perhaps I wished to see 
The American who brought the money — ^well. 
No matter what it was, I walked in view 
Upon the landing, stood there for a moment 
And saw our visitor, a clergyman 
From all appearances. He stared, grew red. 
Large eyed and apoplectic, then he rose. 
Walked side-ways, backward, stumbled toward the door. 
Rattled with shaking hand the knob and jerked 
The door ajar, with open mouth backed out 
Upon the street and ran. I heard him run 
A square at least." 

"The bishop looked at me. 
His face all brandy blossoms, left the room. 
Came back at once with brandy on his breath. 
And all that day was tippling, went to bed 
So drunk I had to take his clothing off 
And help him in." 

[261] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

"Young girls, beware of music, 
Save only hymns and sacred oratorios. 
Beware the theatre and dancing hall. 
Take lesson from my fate. 

" The morning came. 
The bishop called me, he was very ill 
And pale with fear. He had a dream that night. 
Satan had used him and abandoned him. 
And Death, whom only Jesus can put down, 
Was standing by the bed. He called to me, 
And said to me: 

"'That money's in that drawer. 
Use it to reach America, but use it 
To send my body back. Death's in the corner 
Behind that cabinet — there — see him look! 
I had a dream — go get a pen and paper. 
And write down what I tell you. God forgive me — 
Oh what a blasphemer am I. 0, woman, 
To lie here dying and to know that God 
Has left me — hell awaits me — horrible! 
Last night I dreamed this man who brought the money. 
This man and I were walking from Damascus, 
And in a trice came down to Olivet. 
Just then great troops of men sprang up around us 
And hailed us as expecting our approach. 
And there I saw the faces — hundreds maybe, 
[262! 



THE BISHOP'S DREAM OF HOLY SEPULCHRE 

Of congregations who had trusted me 
In all the long past years — Oh, sinful woman, 
Why did you cross my path,' he moaned at times, 
'And wreck my ministry ' 

"'And so these crowds 
Armed as it seemed, exulted, called me general. 
And shouted forward. So we ran Hke mad 
And came before a building with a dome — 
You know — I've seen a picture of it somewhere. 
And so the crowds yelled : let the bishop enter 
And see the sepulchre, while we keep guard. 
They pushed me in. But when I was inside 
There was no dome, above us was the sky. 
And what seemed walls was nothing but a fence. 
Before us was a stable with a stall 
Where two cows munched the hay. There was a farmer 
Who with a pitchfork bedded down the stall. 
"Where is the holy sepulchre? " I asked — 
" My army's at the door." He kept at work 
And never raised his eyes and only said : 
" Don't know; I haven't time for things like that. 
You're 'bout the hundredth man who's asked me that. 
We don't know where it is, nor do we care. 
We live here and we knew him, so we feel 
Less interest than you. But have you thought 
If you should find it it would only be 
A tomb like other tombs ? Why look at this : 
[ 263 ] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Here is the very manger where he lay — 
What is it? Just a manger filled with straw. 
These cows are not the very cows you know — 
But cows are cows in every age and place. 
I think that board there has been nailed on since. 
Outside of that the place is just the same. 
Now what's the good of seeing it? His mother 
Lay in that corner there, what if she did ? 
That lantern on the wall's the very one . 
They came to see the child with from the inn — 
What of it ? Take your army and go on, 
And leave me with my barn and with my cows." 

" ' So all the glory vanished! Devil magic 
Stripped all the glory off. No angels singing, 
No star of Bethlehem, no magi kneeling. 
No Mary crowned, no Jesus King, no mystic 
Blood for sins' remission — ^just a barn, 
A stall, two cows, a lantern — all the glory 
Swept from the gospel. That's my punishment: 
My poor weak brain filled full of all this dream, 
Which seems as real as life — to lie here dying 
Too weak to shake the dream! To see Death there 
Behind that cabinet — there — see him look — 
By God forsaken — all theology, 
All mystery, all wonder, all delight 
Of spiritual vision swept away as clean 
As winds sweep up the clouds, and thus to see 
[264] 



THE BISHOP'S DREAM OF HOLY SEPULCHRE 

While dying, just a manger, and two cows, 
A lantern on the wall. 

"'And thus to see. 
For blasphemy that duped an honest heart. 
And took the pitiful dollars of the flock 
To win you with — oh, woman, woman, woman, 
A barn, a stall, a lantern limned so clear 
In such a daylight of clear seeing senses 
That all the splendor, the miraculous 
Wonder of the virgin, nimbused child. 
The star that followed till it rested over 
The manger (such a manger) all are wrecked. 
All blotted from belief, all snatched away 
From hands pushed off by God, no longer holding 
The robes of God.' 

"And so the bishop raved 
While I stood terrified, since I could feel 
Death in the room, and almost see the monster 
Behind the cabinet. 

"Then the bishop said: 
" 'My dream went on. I crossed the stable yard 
And passed into a place of tombs. And look! 
Before I knew I stepped into a hole, 
A sunken grave with just a slab at head, 
And "Jesus" carven on it, nothing else, 
No date, no birth, no parentage.'" 
[265] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

"'I lie 
Tormented by the pictures of this dream. 
Woman, take to your death bed with clear mind 
Of gospel faith, clean conscience, sins forgiven. 
The thoughts that we must suffer with and die with 
Are worth the care of all the days of life. 
All life should be directed to this end, 
Lest when the mind lies fallen, vultures swoop, 
And with their wings blot out the sun of faith. 
And with their croakings drown the voice of God.* 

*'He ceased, became delirious. So he died. 
And I still unrepentant buried him 
There in Montreaux, and with what gold remained 
Went on to Paris. 

"See how I was marked 
For God's salvation. 

"There I went to see 
The celebrated teacher Jean Strakosch, 
Who looked at me with insolent, calm eyes, 
And face impassive, let me sing a scale. 
Then shook his head. A diva, as I thought, 
Came in just then. They talked in French, and I, 
Prickling from head to foot with shame, ignored. 
Left standing like a fool, passed from the room. 
So music turned on me, but God received me, 
[266] 



THE BISHOP'S DREAM OF HOLY SEPULCHRE 

And I came back to Springfield. But the Lord 
Made life too hard for me without the fold. 
I was so shunned and scorned, I had no place 
Save with the fallen, with the mockers, drinkers. 
Thus being in conviction, after struggles. 
And many prayers I found salvation, found 
My work in life: which is to talk to girls 
And stand upon this platform and relate 
My story for their good." 

She ceased. Amens 
Went up about the room. The big drum boomed. 
And the raucous brass horns mingled with the cymbals. 
The silver triangle and the singing voices. 

My friend and I arose and left the room. 



[267] 



NEANDERTHAL 

"Then what is life?" I cried. And with that cry 
I woke from deeper slumber — ^was it sleep ? — 
And saw a hooded figure standing by 
The bed whereon I lay. 

"Why do you keep, 
O spirit beautiful and swift, this guard 
About my slumber? Shelley, from the deep 
Why do you come with veiled face, mighty bard. 
As that unearthly shape was veiled to you 
AtCasaMagni?" 

Then the room was starred 
With light as I was speaking, and I knew 
The god, my brother, from whose face the veil 
Melted as mist. 

"What mission fair and true, 
While I am sleeping, brings you? For I pale 
Amid this solemn stillness, for your face 
Unutterably majestic." 

As when the dale 
At midnight echoes for a little space, 
The night-bird's cry, the god responded "Come," 
[268I 



NEANDERTHAL 

And nothing more. I left my bed apace. 
And followed him with wings above the gloom 
Of clouds like chariots driven on to war, 
Between whose wheels the swift moon raced and 
swum. 

A mile beneath us lay the earth, afar 
Were mountains which as swift as thought drew near 
As we passed over pines, where many a star 
And heaven's light made every frond as clear 
As through a glass or in the lightning's flash . . . 
Yet I seemed flying from an olden fear, 
A bulk of black that sought to sting or gnash 
My breast or side — ^which was myself, it seemed. 
The flesh or thinking part of me grown rash 
And violent, a brain soul unredeemed. 
Which sometime earlier in the grip of Death 
Forgot its terror when my soul which streamed 
Like ribbons of silk fire, with quiet breath 
Said to the body, as it were a thing 
Separate and indifferent: "How uneath 
That fellow turns, while I am safe yet cling 
Close to him, both another and the same." 
Now was this mood reversed : That self must wing 
Its fastest flight to fly him, lest he maim 
With fleshly hands my better, stronger part. 
As dragon wings my flap and quench a flame. . . . 
But as we passed o'er empires and athwart 
[269] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

A bellowing strait, beholding bergs and floes 
And running tides which made the sinking heart 
Rise up again for breath, I felt how close 
The god, my brother, was, who would sustain 
My wings whatever dangers might oppose, 
And knowing him beside me, like a strain 
Of music were his thoughts, though nothing yet 
Was spoken by him. 

When as out of rain 
Suddenly lights may break, the earth was set 
Beneath us, and we stood and paused to see 
The Diissel river from a parapet 
Of earth and rock. Then bending curiously. 
As reaching, in a moment with his hand 
He scraped the turf and stones, pried up a key 
Of harder granite, and at his command, 
When he had made an opening, I slid 
And sank, down, down through the Devonian land 
Until with him I reached a cavern hid 
From every eye but ours, and where no light 
But from our faces was, a pyramid 
Of hills that walled this crypt of soundless night. 
Then in a mood, it seemed more fanciful. 
He bent again and raked, and to my sight 
Upheaved and held the remnant of a skull — 
Gorilla's or a man's, I could not guess. 
Yet brutal though it was, it was a hull 
[270] 



NEANDERTHAL 

Too fine and large to house the nakedness 
Of a beast's mind. 

But as I looked the god 
Began these words: "Before the iron stress 
Of the north pole's dominion fell, he trod 
The wastes of Europe, ere the Nile was made 
A granary for the east, or ere the clod 
In Babylon or India baked was laid 
For hovels, this man lived. Ten thousand years 
Before the earliest pyramid cast its shade 
Upon the desolate sands this thing of fears, 
Lusts, hungers, lived and hunted, woke and slept, 
Mated, produced its kind, with hairy ears. 
And tiger eyes sensed all that you accept 
In terms of thought or vision as the proof 
Of immanent Power or Love. But this skull kept 
The intangible meaning out. This heavy roof 
Of brutish bone above the eyes was dead 
Even to lower ethers, no behoof 
Of seasons, stars or skies took, though they bred 
Suspicions, fears, or nervous glances, thought, 
Which silent as a lizard's shadow fled 
Before it graved itself, passed over, wrought 
No vision, only pain, which he deemed pangs 
Of hunger or of thirst." 

As you have sought 
The meaning of life's riddle, since it hangs 
[271] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

In waking or in slumber just above 
The highest reach of prophecy, and fangs 
With poison of despair all moods but love, 
Behold its secret lettered on this brow 
Placed by your own ! 

This is the word thereof: 

Change and progression from the glazed slough, 
Where life creeps and is Mind, ascending up 
The jungled slopes for prey till spirits bow 
On Calvaries with crosses, take the cup 
Of martyrdom for truth's sake. 

It may be 
Men of to-day make monstrous war, sleep, sup, 
Traffic, build shrines, as earliest history 
Records the earliest day, and that the race 
Is what it was in virtue, charity. 
And nothing better. But within this face 
No light shone from that realm where Hindostan, 
Delving in numbers, watching stars took grace 
And inspiration to explore the plan 
Of heaven and earth. And of the scheme the test 
Is not five thousand years, which leave the van 
Just where it was, but this change manifest 
In fifty thousand years between the mind 
Neanderthal's and Shelley's. 
[272] 



NEANDERTHAL 

Man progressed 
Along these years, found eyes where he was bhnd, 
Put instinct under thought, crawled from the cave, 
And faced the sun, till somewhere heaven's wind 
Mixed with the light of Lights descending, gave 
To mind a touch of divinity, making whole 
An undeveloped growth. 

As ships that brave 
Great storms at sea on masts a flaming coal 
From heaven catch, bear on, so man was wreathed 
Somewhere with lightning and became a soul. 
Into his nostrils purer fire was breathed 
Than breath of life itself, and by a leap. 
As lightning leaps from crag to crag, what seethed 
In man from the beginning broke the sleep 
That lay on consciousness of self, with eyes 
Awakened saw himself, out of the deep 
And wonder of the self caught the surmise 
Of Power beyond this world, and felt it through 
The flow of living. 

And so man shall rise 
From this illumination, from this clue 
To perfect knowledge that this Power exists. 
And what man is to this Power, even as you 
Have left Neanderthal lost in the mists 
And ignorance of centuries untold. 

[273] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

What would you say if learned geologists 
Out of the rocks and caverns should unfold 
The skulls of greater races, records, books 
To shame us for our day, could we behold 
Therein our retrogression ? Wonder looks 
In vain for these, discovers everywhere 
Proof of the root which darkly bends and crooks 
Far down and far away; a stalk more fair 
Upspringing finds its proof, buds on the stalk 
The eye may see, at last the flowering flare 
Of man to-day! 

I see the things which balk, 
Retard, divert, draw into sluices small. 
But who beholds the stream turned back to mock. 
Not just itself, but make equivocal 
A Universal Reason, Vision ? No. 
You find no proof of this, but prodigal 
Proof of ascending Life ! 

So life shall flow 
Here on this globe until the final fruit 
And harvest. As it were until the glow 
Of the great blossom has the attribute 
In essence, color of eternal things, 
And shows no rim between its hues which suit 
The infinite sky's. Then if the dead earth swings 
A gleaned and stricken field amid the void 

[274I 



NEANDERTHAL 

What matters it to you, a soul with wings, 
Whether it be replanted or destroyed ? 
Has it not served you?" 

Now his voice was still. 
Which in such discourse had been thus employed. 
And in that lonely cavern dark and chill 
I heard again, "Then what is life?" And woke 
To find the moonlight on the window sill 
That which had seemed his presence. And a cloak. 
Whose hood was perked upon the moonbeams, made 
The skull of the Neanderthal. The smoke 
Blown from the fireplace formed the cavern's shade. 
And roaring winds blew down as they had tuned 
The voice which left me calm and unafraid. 



[^7Sl 



THE END OF THE SEARCH 

There^s the dragon banner, says Old King Cole^ 

And the tiger banner, he cries. 

Pantagruel breaks into a laugh 

As the monarch dries his eyes. — The Search 

" The tiger banyer, that is what you call much 
Bad men in China, Amelica. The dragon banyer^ 
That is storm, leprosy, no rice, what you call 
Nature. See ! Nature! " — King Joy 

Said Old King Cole I know the banner 
Of dragon and tiger too, 
But I would know the vagrant fellows 
Who came to my castle with you. 

4: 4: 4= 4= 4: 

And I would know why they rise in the morning 

And never take bread or scrip; 

And why they hasten over the mountain 

In a sorrowed fellowship. 

Then said Pantagruel: Heard you not? 
One said he goes to Spain. 
I 276] 



THE END OF THE SEARCH 

One said he goes to Elsinore, 
And one to the Trojan plain. 

* * * * 

Faith, if it be, said Old King Cole, 
There is a word that's more: 
Who is it goes to Spain and Troy? 
And who to Elsinore ? 



One may be Quixote, said Pantagruel, 
Out for the final joust. 
One may be Hamlet, said Pantagruel 
And one I think is Faust. 



Whoever they be, said Pantagruel, 
Why stand at the window and drool? 
Let's out and catch the runaways 
While the morning hour is cool. 

Pantagruel runs to the castle court, 
And King Cole follows soon. 
The cobblestones of the court yard ring 
To the beat of their flying shoon. 

Pantagruel clutches the holy bottle. 
And King Cole clutches his crown. 

[ 277 ] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

They throw the bolt of the castle gate 
And race them through the town. 

They cross the river and follow the road, 
They run by the willow trees, 
And the tiger banner and dragon banner 
Wait for the morning breeze. 

They clamber the wall and part the brambles, 
And tear through thicket and thorn. 
And a wild dove in an olive tree 
Does mourn and mourn and mourn. 



A green snake starts in the tangled grass, 
And springs his length at their feet. 
And a condor circles the purple sky 
Looking for carrion meat. 

***** 

And mad black flies are over their heads. 
And a wolf looks out of his hole. 
Great drops of sweat break out and run 
From the brow of Old King Cole. 

***** 

Said Old King Cole: A drink, my friend. 
From the holy bottle, I pray. 
[278I 



THE END OF THE SEARCH 

My breath is short, my feet run blood, 
My throat is baked as clay. 

Anon they reach a mountain top, 
And a mile below in the plain 
Are the glitter of guns and a million men 
Led by an idiot brain. 

They come to a field of slush and flaw 
Red with a blood red dye. 
And a million faces fungus pale 
Stare horribly at the sky. 

They come to a cross where a rotting thing 
Is slipping down from the nails. 
And a raven perched on the eyeless skull 
Opens his beak and rails: 

"If thou be the Son of man come down, 
Save us and thyself save." 
Pantagruel flings a rock at the raven: 
"How now blaspheming knave!" 

^ * 4: H: % 

"Come down and of my bottle drink, 
And cease this scurvy rune." 
[279] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

But the raven flapped its wings and laughed 
Loud as the water loon. 



Said Old King Cole: A drink, my friend, 
I faint, a drink in haste. 
But when he drinks he pales and mutters: 
"The wine has lost its taste." 

"You have gone mad," said Pantagruel, 
"In faith 'tis the same old wine." 
Pantagruel drinks at the holy bottle 
But the flavor is like sea brine. 



And there on a rock is a cypress tree, 
And a form with a muffled face. 
"I know you, Death," said Pantagruel, 
"But I ask of you no grace." 

4c 4i * 4: 4( 

"Empty my bottle, sour my wine. 
Bend me, you shall not break." 
"Oh well," said Death, "one woe at a time 
Before I come and take." 

* * * * * 

"You have lost everything in life but the bottle. 
Youth and woman and friend. 
[280] 



THE END OF THE SEARCH 

Pass on and laugh for a little space yet 
The laugh that has an end." 

* * * * ^ 

Pantagruel passes and looks around him 
Brave and merry of soul. 
But there on the ground lies a dead body. 
The body of Old King Cole. 

And a Voice said : Take the body up 
And carry the body for me 
Until you come to a silent water, 
By the sands of a silent sea. 

* * * * Hi 

Pantagruel takes the body up 

And the dead fat bends him down. 

He climbs the mountains, runs the valleys 

With body, bottle and crown. 

And the wastes are strewn with skulls, 
And the desert is hot and cursed. 
And a phantom shape of the holy bottle 
Mocks his burning thirst. 

Pantagruel wanders seven days. 
And seven nights wanders he. 
[281] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

And on the seventh night he rests him 
By the sands of the silent sea. 



And sees a new made fire on the shore, 
And on the fire is a dish. 
And by the fire two travelers sleep, 
And two are broiling fish. 



Don Quixote and Hamlet are sleeping. 
And Faust is stirring the fire. 
But the fourth is a stranger with a face 
Starred with a great desire. 



Pantagruel hungers, Pantagruel thirsts, 
Pantagruel falls to his knees. 
He flings down the body of Old King Cole 
As a man throws off disease. 



And rolls his burden away and cries: 
"Take and watch, if you will. 
But as for me I go to France 
My bottle to refill. 



[282] 



THE END OF THE SEARCH 

"And as for me I go to France 
To fill this bottle up." 
He felt at his side for the holy bottle, 
And found it turned a cup. 

it: * * * ^ 

And the stranger said: Behold our friend 
Has brought my cup to me. 
That is the cup whereof I drank 
In the garden Gethsemane. 

Pantagruel hands the cup to Jesus 
Who dips it in sea brine. 
This is the water, says Jesus of Nazareth, 
Whereof I make your wine. 

And Faust takes the cup from Jesus of Nazareth, 

And his lips wear a purple stain. 

And Faust hands the cup to Pantagruel 

With the dregs for him to drain. 



Pantagruel drinks and falls into slumber. 
And Jesus strokes his hair. 
And Faust sings a song of Euphorion 
To hide his heart's despair. 



283 



TOWARD THE GULF 

And Faust takes the hand of Jesus of Nazareth, 
And they walk by the purple deep. 
Says Jesus of Nazareth: "Some are watchers, 
And some grow tired and sleep/* 



[284I 



BOTANICAL GARDENS 

He follows me no more, I said, nor stands 
Beside me. And I wake these later days 
In an April mood, a wonder light and free. 
The vision is gone, but gone the constant pain 
Of constant thought. I see dawn from my hill, 
And watch the lights which fingers from the waters 
Twine from the sun or moon. Or look across 
The waste of bays and marshes to the woods, 
Under the prism colors of the air. 
Held in a vacuum silence, where the clouds, 
Like cyclop hoods are tossed against the sky 
In terrible glory. 

And earth charmed I lie 
Before the staring sphinx whose musing face 
Is this Egyptian heaven, and whose eyes 
Are separate clouds of gold, whose pedestal 
Is earth, whose silken sheathed claws 
No longer toy with me, even while I stroke them : 
Since I have ceased to tease her. 

Then behold 
A breeze is blown out of a world becalmed, 
And as I see the multitudinous leaves 
[285] 



TOWARD THE GtJLF 

Fluttered against the water and the light. 

And see this light unveil itself, reveal 

An inner light, a Presence, Secret splendor, 

I clap hands over eyes, for the earth reels; 

And I have fears of dieties shown or spun 

From nothingness. But when I look again 

The earth has stayed itself, I see the lake. 

The leaves, the light of the sun, the cyclop hoods 

Of thunder heads, yet feel upon my arm 

A hand I know, and hear a voice I know — 

He has returned and brought with him the thought 

And the old pain. 

The voice says: "Leave the sphinx. 
The garden waits your study fully grown." 

And I arise and follow down a slope 
To a lawn by the lake and an ancient seat of stone, 
And near it a fountain's shattered rim enclosing 
An Eros of light mood, whose sculptured smile 
Consciously dimples for the unveiled pistil of love. 
As he strokes with baby hand the slender arching 
Neck of a swan. And here is a peristyle 
Whose carven columns are pink as the long updrawn 
Stalks of tulips bedded in April snow. 
And sunk amid tiger lillies is the face 
Of an Asian Aphrodite close to the seat 
With feet of a Babylonian lion amid 
[286] 



BOTANICAL GARDENS 

This ruined garden of yellow daisies, poppies 
And ruddy asphodel from Crete, it seems. 
Though here is our western moon as white and thin 
As an abalone shell hung under the boughs 
Of an oak, that is mocked by the vastness of sky be- 
tween 
His boughs and the moon in this sky of afternoon. . . . 
We walk to the water's edge and here he shows me 
Green scum, or stalks, or sedges, grasses, shrubs, 
That yield to trees beyond the levels, where 
The beech and oak have triumph; for along 
This gradual growth from algae, reeds and grasses, 
That builds the soil against the water's hands. 
All things are fierce for place and garner life 
From weaker things. 

And then he shows me root stocks, 
And Alpine willow, growths that sneak and crawl 
Beneath the soil. Or as we leave the lake 
And walk the forest I behold lianas, 
Smilax or woodbine climbing round the trunks 
Of giant trees that live and out of earth. 
And out of air make strength and food and ask 
No other help. And in this place I see 
Spiral bryony, python of the vines 
That coils and crushes; and that banyan tree 
Whose spreading branches drop new roots to earth, 
And lives afar from where the parent trunk 

[287] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

Has sunk its roots, so that the healthful sun 

Is darkened: as a people might be darkened 

By ignorance or want or tyranny, 

Or dogma of a jungle hidden faith. 

Why is it, think I, though I dare not speak, 

That this should be to forests or to men; 

That water fails, and light decreases, heat 

Of God's air lessens, and the soil goes spent. 

Till plants change leaves and stalks and seeds as well, 

Or migrate from the olden places, go 

In search of life, or if they cannot move 

Die in the ruthless marches. 

That is life, he said. 
For even these, the giants scatter life 
Into the maws of death. That towering tree 
That for these hundred years has leafed itself. 
And through its leaves out of the magic air 
Drawn nutriment for annual girths, took root 
Out of an acorn which good chance preserved. 
While all its brother acorns cast to earth, 
To make trees, by a parent tree now gone. 
Were crushed, devoured, or strangled as they sprouted 
Amid thick jealous growth wherein they fell. 
All acorns but this one were lost. 

Then he reads 
My questioning thought and shows me yuccas, cactus 
Whose thick leaves in the rainless places thrive. 

[288] 



BOTANICAL GARDENS 

And shows me leaves that must have rain, and roots 

That must have water where the river flows. 

And how the spirit of life, though turned or driven 

This way or that beyond a course begun, 

Cannot be stayed or quenched, but moves, conforms 

To soil and sun, makes roots, or thickens leaves, 

Or thins or re-adjusts them on the stem 

To fashion forth itself, produce its kind. 

Nor dies not, rests not, nor surrenders not, 

Is only changed or buried, re-appears 

As other forms of life. 

We had walked through 
A forest of sequoias, beeches, pines, 
And ancient oaks where I could see the trace 
Of willows, alders, ruined or devoured 
By the great Titans. 

At last 
We reached my hill and sat and overlooked 
The garden at our feet, even to the place 
Of tiger lilies and of asphodel. 
By now beneath the self-same moon, grown denser: 
As where the wounded surface of the shell 
Thickens its shimmering stufF in spiral coigns 
Of the shell, so was the moon above the seat 
Beside the Eros and the Aphrodite 
Sunk amid yellow daisies and deep grass. 
[289] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

And here we sat and looked. And here my vision 

Was over all we saw, but not a part 

Of what we saw, for all we saw stood forth 

As foreign to myself as something touched 

To learn the thing it is. 

I might have asked 
Who owns this garden, for the thought arose 
With my surprise, who owns this garden, who 
Planted this garden, why and to what end. 
And why this fight for place, for soil and sun 
Water and air, and why this enmity 
Between the things here planted, and between 
Flying or crawling life and plants, and whence 
The power that falls in one place but arises 
Some other place; and why the unceasing growth 
Of all these forms that only come to seed. 
Then disappear to enrich the insatiate soil 
Where the new seed falls? But silence kept me there 
For wonder of the beauty which I saw, 
Even while the faculty of external vision 
Kept clear the garden separate from me. 
Envisioned, seen as grasses, sedges, alders, 
As forestry, as fields of wheat and corn. 
As the vast theatre of unceasing life. 
Moving to life and blind to all but life; 
As places used, tried out, as if the gardener. 
For his delight or use, or for an end 

[290] 



BOTANICAL GARDENS 

Of good or beauty made experiments 

With seed or soils or crossings of the seed. 

Even as peoples, epochs, did the garden 

Lie to my vision, or as races crowding, 

Absorbing, dispossessing, killing races. 

Not only for a place to grow, but under 

A stimulus of doctrine: as Mahomet, 

Or Jesus, like a vital change of air, 

Or artifice of culture, made the garden, 

Which mortals call the world, grow in a way, 

And overgrow the world as neither dreamed. 

Who is the Gardener then ? Or is there one 

Beside the life within the plant, within 

The python climbers, wandering sedges, root stalks, 

Thorn bushes, night-shade, deadly saprophytes, 

Goths, Vandals, Tartars, striving for more life. 

And praying to the urge within as God, 

The Gardener who lays out the garden, sprays 

For insects which devour, keeps rich the soil 

For those who pray and know the Gardener 

As One who is without and over-sees ? . . . 

But while in contemplation of the garden, 
Whether from failing day or from departure 
Of my own vision in the things it saw, 
Bereft of penetrating thought I sank, 
Became a part of what I saw and lost 
The great solution. 

[291] 



TOWARD THE GULF 

As we sat in silence, 
And coming night, what seemed the sinking moon, 
Amid the yellow sedges by the lake 
Began to twinkle, as a fire were blown — 
And it was fire, the garden was afire. 
As it were all the world had flamed with war. 
And a wind came out of the bright heaven 
And blew the flames, first through the ruined garden, 
Then through the wood, the fields of wheat, at last 
Nothing was left but waste and wreaths of smoke 
Twisting toward the stars. And there he sat 
Nor uttered aught, save when I sighed he said 
"If it be comforting I promise you 
Another spring shall come." 

"And after that?" 
"Another spring — that's all I know myself, 
There shall be springs and springs!" 



Printed in the United States of America 



[292] 



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